


The only way you can know (Is give it all you have)

by dezemberzarin



Series: I Lived Verse [8]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezemberzarin/pseuds/dezemberzarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you’re blowing me off for a hot date with your childhood friend, who just happens to be gay. I can’t even be mad at you now.” </p>
<p>Mario groans. “It’s not a date. We’re friends! Not even that, I haven’t talked to him in like, fifteen years. He could have become a religious fanatic for all I know.”</p>
<p>“As long as he’s hot,” Ann opines. “Is he hot?” </p>
<p>“I- how is that- it doesn’t matter!” Mario yelps, knowing he sounds flustered. “It’s not a date!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The only way you can know (Is give it all you have)

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are then. I can't quite believe this is actually happening, it seems like I've been working on this story for ages, this part in particular. That's due to its length, but also because posting this is probably the most nerve-wracking thing I've ever done and I had to talk myself into doing it. Partly because I don't want to disappoint anyone, but also because this story has been with me for so long and letting go of it hurts (in the best possibe way, but still). 
> 
> There's one thing I need to say and to understand where I'm coming from, you need to know that though I never stopped writing, I hadn't published anything in a very long time before this fandom and particular pairing came along. To be honest, a year ago I was pretty certain I'd never publish fanfiction again. Then this story happened. YOU happened. The feedback I've gotten in this fandom has been out of this world and I can't even begin to thank you enough for the kudos and comments you left. You have no idea how much of a push it was to keep me going and to actually finish this monstrosity. So thank you all. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You gave me back something I was pretty sure was lost for good <3

“I just had the best sex of my life.” 

Mario blinks at the DVD he’s about to shelve and adjusts the grip on his phone, tucking it between his shoulder and ear so he has both hands free. “Hello to you, too.” 

“Don’t be finicky,” Ann says. “There’s no time for niceties, he just went for a shower. I have like ten minutes and I need all of them to tell you that I just had the best sex of my life. Maybe anyone’s life. Jury’s still out on that one.” 

Mario can’t help but snort, follows it up with a long-suffering sigh just to balance things out. “Alright, hit me.” 

“Ok, so, have you ever had sex when you kind of felt like you were watching yourself from the outside and it was like the best porn ever?”

Mario raises his eyebrows as he bends down to pick another DVD from the box at his feet. “No. And quite frankly, I’m a little concerned that you have.” 

“Shut up,” Ann says and Mario can hear her grin. “I’m serious here. He did this thing with his tongue and it was like Niagara Falls down there.” 

Mario grimaces. “I’m familiar with the concept.” 

“Right,” Ann says with a laugh. “On a scale from one to ten, how badly am I grossing you out with my vagina talk right now?” 

“Minus three,” Mario says distractedly, wondering whether he should put Fight Club with the other Tarantino movies, or if it should go straight to favorites. “I think you’re forgetting that I’ve had sex with a girl.” 

“Right,” Ann says, drawing it out. “Anna, right? But that was ages ago.” 

“Hanna,” Mario corrects. “And I was seventeen, so more like four years.”

“And you two actually..?”

“Yes,” Mario sighs. “Believe it or not, I have nothing against vaginas. They’re fine. I just happen to enjoy dick a lot more. Doesn’t mean the mere mention of pussy repels me. Shouldn’t your Sex God be back by now?” 

“I don’t know, maybe he’s drowned or something,” Ann says dismissively. “Stop trying to change the topic, this is _fascinating_. So what you’re telling me is that we could have been having sex this whole time and you never said anything?” 

Mario pauses, _Watchmen_ in his hand. “I’m reasonably certain that that wasn’t at all what I just told you.” 

“Oh, come on!” Ann exclaims, sounding way too enthusiastic for Mario’s liking. “It would be fun! You, me, a 10-inch strap-on…” 

“I’m hanging up now,” Mario threatens, listening to Ann laugh herself sick on the other end of the line. “I hope that guy’s recovery time is three hours and he’ll tell you all about the gritty, realistic book he’s writing about a middle-aged guy finding love while you wait around for his dingle to clock in again.” 

Ann actually howls with laughter and Mario thinks he can hear someone in the background call “Sugar? Everything okay?”, which sets him off as well. They’re giggling like children and Ann’s laughter is so infectious that every time Mario starts to pull himself together, her voice gets him going again. By the end of it he’s dropped down onto the armrest of the couch, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. His whole body hurts and his stomach feels like he just pulled a muscle. 

“Oh God,” Ann groans, still hiccupping a little. “He really is writing a book though. My dating life is a disaster.” 

Mario, who has no room to make fun of anyone’s dating life for possibly the rest of his mortal existence, wisely says nothing. Ann sighs, the rustle over the line telling Mario she’s shifting around in the sheets. “Alright, I’ve gotta go. One more thing though. You know that producer I’ve talked to about maybe getting me to record a song? He invited me to one of his parties and I was wondering whether you could come join me. Be my arm candy.” 

“’Course,” Mario says, stifling a yawn. It’s getting late. “But wouldn’t you rather take the Sex God?” 

“Don’t even joke about that. He might be good in bed, but he calls me ‘Sugar’. Like I’d be able to tolerate that for more than five minutes.” 

Mario grins. “Point. Alright, when is it?” 

“This Thursday. I know you have PT the next day, but it’s in Frankfurt, so we’d be back in no time. I’ll even drive and you can get all tipsy on free champagne.” 

“Oh,” Mario says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, ah, actually can’t on Thursday.” 

“Really?” Ann asks, sounding surprised. “How come? Not that this should influence your decision in any way, but if you’re blowing me off to hang out with your teammates, who you see every day, I’m going to knee you in the balls when I see you next time.” 

Mario snorts. “Charming. It’s not the guys, I’m meeting a friend.” 

“A friend,” Ann repeats and Mario can practically see the frown on her face. “What friend?” 

“Someone I knew back in primary school,” Mario says, wondering why he feels so reluctant to talk about this. It’s not like Ann knows anything about Leon or the way he and Mario parted. “I ran into him last weekend when I went out with the guys.”

Ann is silent for a moment, seemingly contemplating this confirmation. “So you met him in a gay bar?” she finally asks and Mario could slap himself for not realizing that she would put that together immediately. 

“It’s not what you think,” he tries, because she’s going to be on this like a bear on honey. “We just haven’t seen each other in forever.” 

“So you’re blowing me off for a hot date with your childhood friend, who just happens to be gay. I can’t even be mad at you now.” 

Mario groans. “It’s not a date. We’re friends! Not even that, I haven’t talked to him in like, fifteen years. He could have become a religious fanatic for all I know.”

“As long as he’s hot,” Ann opines. “Is he hot?” 

“I- how is that- it doesn’t matter!” Mario yelps, knowing he sounds flustered. “It’s not a date!” 

“Of course not,” Ann says soothingly. “But just so you know, when _I’m_ meeting old friends, I like to make sure I’m wearing my sexy underwear.”

This time Mario hangs up without warning, but even so, he imagines he can still hear Ann laughing at him while he unpacks the rest of his DVDs. 

*

It’s ridiculous. It is not a date. They’re two old friends getting coffee, nothing more. Ann probably even realizes it’s not a date, she just likes to torture him. Mario knows it and he’s learned to roll with the punches, gets in his own jabs from time to time, mostly by casually wondering whether she’s having a bad hair day. None of that explains why it is two days later and Mario still hasn’t managed to stop thinking about Ann’s remark. 

At the time, nothing seemed more innocuous than agreeing to Leon’s suggestion to catch up over coffee. Of course, Mario was still reeling from the fact that his childhood crush just picked him out of the crowd in a gay bar, but Leon appeared utterly unfazed, following Mario back to his table and introducing himself to the others without a care in the world. He only stayed long enough to type his number into Mario’s phone, but the others teased him mercilessly nonetheless once he was gone. 

“Look at you,” David exclaimed happily. “Can’t even get a few drinks without ruggedly handsome strangers following you home like puppies. I wish I had a face like yours.” 

Mario can’t quite remember what he replied, but even now, he’s reasonably sure he skirted around the fact that David called Leon attractive. Which is stupid. It was quite clear to anyone with eyes that Leon was attractive, his dark curls and beard turning quite a few heads on their through the crowd. So why would he even care? Was Mario thrown to see that the freckled, gap-toothed boy he remembered had grown into a tall, lean tree of a man? Of course. That still doesn’t mean he’s attracted to Leon. 

“It doesn’t,” he mutters petulantly, thinking of the knowing smirk Ann would give him, if she were here.

“What?” 

Mario blinks as he realizes he’s not by himself anymore, Thiago looking at him curiously, perched on the spinning machine next to Mario’s. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” 

Thiago grunts in acknowledgement and they get back to their workout, the med staff wandering in from time to time to check on them. Mario’s shirt clings to the small of his back when he climbs off and his legs feel shaky, but the physical therapist gives him a thumbs-up after checking his thigh, declaring he’s well on his way to a full recovery. 

It’s excellent news and the others join in his excitement when he shares the prognosis over lunch, Thomas punching his shoulder and David actually clapping his hands in delight. “I can’t wait, bro. We’re going to _own_ the League this year.”

When he gets home five hours later, Mario is pleasantly exhausted by his PT and buzzed from the team’s company. It’s still unreal to him how much of a difference their presence has made for his comfort at Säbener, the easy camaraderie and teasing making him feel more at home than any of the grand declarations by the club officials had. None of the guys who were at the club with him has uttered a single word about that night since then, fulfilling David’s promise of their discretion and easing the worry Mario still can’t entirely shake when he remembers that five of his teammates know about his secret now. 

_And Leon._ It’s a thought he’s managed to push away quite successfully so far, but Mario knows he’s going to have to deal with that sooner or later. Even if he somehow manages to convince Leon he was just there with his friends, there’s still the fact that Mario never answered any of his letters after the last time they saw each other. After the treehouse. Leon is bound to want an explanation for that and Mario has no idea what to tell him. 

He spends the rest of his night unpacking the last of his belongings, putting some of it in the living room once he runs out of shelf-space in his room. Fabian is going to move in six weeks from now, but until then, Mario can still strew his stuff about without anyone there to yell at him. The last box is filled with clothes and he’s about to shove a stack of t-shirts into his closet without looking too closely whether they’re folded properly or not, when something glittery catches his attention. 

He pulls on the stiff piece of fabric poking out of the bottom of the stack and sucks in a breath when he realizes what it is. The shirt is black, with the tackiest print of a leopard on the front that a person could imagine, too big to fit Mario without hanging off his frame. His fingers shake when he unfolds it slowly, hesitantly bringing it up to his face. 

The disappointment is like a rush of cold water when there’s nothing but the scent of laundry soap filling his nostrils and his fingers clench in the fabric, almost tearing the neckline. He must have packed it by accident with some of his stuff after sleeping over at Marco’s once, and then laundered it with the intention of returning it. Only he forgot. 

Mario glances at his phone on the bed, wonders what would happen if he were to snap a picture of the shirt and send it to Marco right now. Would Marco even reply? Would he care? Or would it just be something funny to mention to the guys at training tomorrow? It’s been more than three weeks since his last message and Mario can’t help but think of that picture on Instagram, Marco grinning into the camera with his new teammate, not a care in the world. 

The phone is in his hand before he can think better of it and he’s opening a new text message, typing the words out quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. 

_do you miss me at all?_

He’s staring at the question with bile in his throat, deleting it after a few seconds of humiliated clarity. The realization that this question has been all he’s been wanting to ask Marco, even as his mind drew a complete blank on anything else to talk to him about, is not helping matters. He should just call him. Make light of the fact that they haven’t talked in three weeks, ask about the new guys on the team. Anything but the horrible silence that’s evolved into this _thing_ that has grown teeth by now, eats away at him slowly, even when he tries not to think about it. 

The guilt and disappointment when he throws his phone back on the bed is too familiar, the reassurance to himself that he _will_ call Marco soon, will somehow figure out to bridge this rift between them, already worn thin with use. It’s been three weeks and he hasn’t figured out shit. Just looking at his phone makes Mario’s stomach clench, so he stuffs the remaining clothes into his closet quickly, grabbing the empty boxes to carry downstairs.

The leopard shirt ends up underneath his bed, tucked carefully into the hoodie that’s already there, another remnant of a life that’s already starting to seem like a dream.

*

Thursday turns out to be a beautiful late-summer day in Munich, the temperature climbing to record highs and the few puffy clouds blowing across the sky only serving to emphasize its otherwise unmarred blue. Leon texts him midday to suggest they meet in the English Garden instead of a coffee house and Mario agrees, trying to tell himself that the skip of his stomach has to do with the salad dressing served in the cafeteria during lunch.

The tangled knots in his stomach continue to twist themselves tighter during the afternoon and by the time Mario is walking along the Isar, the evening breeze rustling through the trees and carrying the distant sound of a dog barking, he has to admit that he might just be a little nervous about seeing Leon again. And it has nothing to do with Ann’s teasing this time. Because this is _Leon_. Leon, who he never quite forgot even as the memory of that life in Memmingen faded; Leon, who was his best friend ever since Mario fell into the stream behind his grandparents’ house trying to get a look at the new neighbors’ kid. Leon, who was his first kiss. 

It doesn’t matter that they’ve already met at the club, this is different. They barely had time to talk then and Mario had no chance to work himself into the frantic state he’s experiencing now, wondering wildly whether a hug would be an inappropriate greeting and if he’d actually be able to pull off a handshake without looking like he’s greeting some random FIFA official. 

He’s so deep in thought that he barely registers that the barking sounds a lot closer now and so he’s completely unprepared when a ball of black and brown fur barrels into his stomach, knocking him down on his ass and climbing onto him immediately, licking at his face with enthusiasm. 

“Lotte, _no_!” 

Mario does have time to realize that he maybe shouldn’t have worried about greetings as much as simply _staying upright_ , but he can’t even bring himself to feel as mortified as he probably should, rather preoccupied with keeping the enthusiastic dog in his lap from actually bathing his entire face in spittle. His position makes that a lot harder than it should be and Mario breathes a sigh of relief when the happily panting creature gets pulled back, Leon’s embarrassed face finally coming into view. 

Mario tries to think of something to say that will make this whole situation seem less awkward, but all that pops into his head is: “You didn’t name her Lassie.” 

Leon _stares_ at him, his dark curls setting off the blue of his eyes rather spectacularly and Mario has a split second to worry that maybe he doesn’t remember this right and has made an even bigger fool of himself, before Leon starts to laugh. He laughs hard enough for Lotte, who up until then was trying desperately to escape her owner’s grip on her collar to get back to Mario, to twist around and tilt her head at him curiously, obviously bemused by the outbreak. 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Leon manages in between wheezes and Mario is starting to grin himself, the entire situation too ridiculous for him to cling to his mortification. 

“You only talked about it, oh, I don’t know, _every single day_ for nearly a year. Truly, it’s remarkable that the information stuck.” 

Leon snaps his fingers. “I tried to make you climb into that old well by the school, so Janosch could come find you!” 

“Only I wasn’t convinced of your cat’s ability to locate much of anything after the time we followed him around the backyard for an hour, until he led us to the spot he hid all those birds and mice he didn’t entirely eat at,” Mario adds, grinning at the memory. 

“God, yeah,” Leon says, eyes glazed, like he’s only remembering that now. “That was a mildly traumatizing afternoon. And my mother still wonders why the first thing I did after moving out was to get a dog.” 

“Speaking of which,” Mario says, eyeing Lotte with what he hopes doesn’t look like too much apprehension. “You think it’s safe for me to get up now?” 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Leon says, his eyes widening as he grips his dog’s collar tighter. “Yes, yes, absolutely, I’ll keep her in check. She’s usually much better behaved than this, but she tends to pick up on my mood and I’ve been looking forward to seeing you the whole week now, so yeah.”

He says it like it’s nothing and Mario tries to tell himself that the flush on his face comes from climbing to his legs too fast, brushing the dirt off his incredibly expensive designer jeans that now have muddy footprints all over them. Once he looks up, he finds that Leon is looking at them as well, chagrin written all over his face as he meets Mario’s gaze. 

“Fuck, I’m really sorry. On a scale from never to not in a million years, how little can I afford to replace these for you?”

“Forget about it,” Mario laughs, because he finds that he honestly doesn’t care, even though Ann would raise her eyebrows at him right now. “Let’s try this again. Come here, girl.” 

Lotte actually raises her head to check with Leon first, though her ears perk up and her tail is wagging like crazy at Mario’s call. Once Leon lets go of her collar she bolts forward, but Mario is prepared this time, crouching down and scratching behind her ears, stroking her soft brown fur. She twists and turns underneath his hand, trying to get petted everywhere at once, but leaves his face out of it, which Mario is grateful for. Dog saliva is not his idea of a good look.

“She’s gorgeous,” he says to Leon, who beams at the two of them. “What kind of breed is she?” 

“No idea,” Leon shrugs. “The people at the pound say she’s definitely got some German Shepherd and maybe Collie in her, but they found her in a cardboard box at the side of the road, so there’s no way to be sure.” 

“That’s horrible,” Mario frowns, scrubbing through the fur on Lotte’s chest as she pants happily underneath his ministrations. “Who would throw an angel like you out on the street? People are awful, aren’t they? Yes, they are. Yes, they _are_.” 

He suddenly becomes aware that he’s fallen into baby-talk and clears his throat, sneaking a glance at Leon, who surprisingly isn’t laughing at him. Instead there’s an expression on his face that Mario can’t quite read and when he actually turns to look, it’s gone in a flash. He gives Lotte’s side one more pat before he gets up, hoping the twist in his thigh is just from crouching down for so long, instead of his muscle re-tearing itself. 

“You got anywhere specific you want to go to?”

“I thought we could get some coffee and just walk around,” Leon says, looking hesitant. “If that’s okay with you. I figured you might not be too crazy about getting recognized when we sit down somewhere.” 

Mario smiles, trying not to show how touched he is by the thoughtfulness in that suggestion. “Sounds perfect. Though I gotta say that I get recognized a lot less since I moved here.” 

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Leon says as they start down the trail next to the Isar, heading deeper into the English Garden, with Lotte charging ahead of them. “That’s probably going to be over soon, now that you’re finally not playing for the enemy anymore and all.” 

He laughs when Mario shoves him and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, fine, no BVB jokes. Don’t give me that look; I even went to one of your games once and that was the first time in my life I was even slightly torn about which team I wanted to win.” 

Mario looks at him in surprise. “You did?”

Leon smiles at him. “I did. Two years ago, Allianz. You scored the winning goal and I told everyone around me that I knew you when we were kids. None of them believed me of course.” 

Lotte comes running with a stick and Mario is glad for the interruption as he bends down to take it from her, the warm tingle in his chest when he thinks of Leon seeing him play back then making it hard to think of a response. He throws the stick and Lotte takes off with an excited yip, Leon whistling as he gazes after her. “Not bad. I think you’re in charge of entertaining her from now on, you can throw way farther than me.” 

“Well, I _am_ a professional athlete,” Mario declares haughtily, relieved when Leon laughs and the conversation turns back to less dangerous waters. 

“I guess you are. Now that I think of it, you’d totally rock our first grade reunion. Remember how everyone wanted to be a footballer?” 

“ _You_ didn’t,” Mario states with a snort. “You always-“ He actually stops walking to stare at Leon, embarrassed by his complete and utter thoughtlessness. “Fuck, I can’t believe I haven’t asked you about this yet. Are you-“ 

“Studying veterinary medicine? Yep.” Leon grins. “I guess we’re a two for two, as far as realizing our childhood dreams go.” 

Mario smiles back at him helplessly, falling back into step with Leon as they continue down the path along the water. “That’s awesome. Seriously, I’m so happy for you, Leo.”

Mario bites down on his tongue, but it’s too late, the old nickname out and filling the air between them, invoking a familiarity that’s been lying dormant for almost fifteen years. When Mario chances a glance at the other man, Leon is smiling at him. “I’ve missed you, Mar.” 

Mario bites down on the prickly feeling at the back of his throat, forcing himself to keep walking and to look ahead. He’s not going to be able to go through with this, if he actually has to look Leon in the face. It takes him another minute, until he’s finally got enough courage to open his mouth. 

“I’m sorry I never wrote back to you.” The words come out in a rush, which is odd, because they feel like dead weight on his tongue. “I should have and I’ve been regretting it ever since. I was a shitty friend to you.” 

“Whoa, hold on.” Leon catches his arm to force him to stop walking. “You weren’t a shitty friend. We were six! You’d moved to a new city, there must have been tons of stuff happening to you. You lose touch, it happens. I’m just glad we found each other again.” 

Looking at the earnest look on Leon’s face, Mario feels even worse. “You don’t get it. I didn’t forget about you. It’s been fifteen years and I don’t think there’s ever been a time when I didn’t regret how I left things between us.”

Leon’s face is a picture of confusion and Mario swallows hard, reminds himself that he’ll never forgive himself, if he doesn’t take this chance to come clean. “I got freaked out about that thing in the treehouse. Not at the time, but later. My brother said something and I thought…well, it doesn’t matter now. The point is that I didn’t forget to stay in touch with you. I actually made the decision not to. I’m sorry.” The last words almost catch in his throat and Mario has to look away, wondering whether he can blame the sting in his eyes on the evening breeze. 

Leon is quiet for the longest time and when he speaks, his voice is contemplative. “I’d tell you that you have nothing to be sorry for, but knowing you, that won’t change a thing. So, I forgive you.” 

Mario whips his head around to stare at Leon, who simply smiles at him. “What? You can’t-“

“I absolutely can. You’re sorry, I forgive you. There. Could you please stop looking like I stole your candy bracelet now?” 

Mario scowls, masking the relief that flows through him like water. “One time that happened! I saved my allowance for that candy bracelet, Wagner.” 

“And it was money well spent, it was delicious,” Leon says with an innocent expression, laughing when Mario punches his arm. “Can we please move on now? Lotte is losing her patience with us I think.” 

A look ahead reveals that he’s right, Lotte waiting for them with a tilted head, clearly trying to estimate what’s holding up the proceedings. She gives a short bark when they start walking, turning to sniff out the interesting things by the side of the path they’re on, obviously happy they’re on the move again. 

“You know,” Leon begins, as they approach the tree line, the lines of a building further ahead slowly taking shape. “I can’t help but notice that you seem to have gotten over your freak out back then. The night we met, you were…” He trails off, clearly unsure how to end that sentence. 

Mario’s heart is beating hard, the decision he has to make sharp in his mind. He lets out a slow breath, trying to make his voice sound calm as he answers. “Yeah. I’m not freaked out anymore.” 

That makes nine, Mario thinks wildly, as he waits for Leon to absorb this new information. Nine people, who know about him, nine potential sources of disaster that could end his career at a moment’s notice. It should feel scary probably, maybe terrifying. It always did before. But all he can sense now is relief, the evening air so much crisper all of a sudden, like he can finally breathe deeply again. 

Leon nudges him and when Mario meets his gaze, he sees that his friend is smiling, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m glad. You want to get that coffee now?” 

They get in their orders at the beer garden, balancing their cups as they continue their walk through the park, to Lotte’s endless delight. Leon actually makes Mario try the concoction he got for himself, which despite its hazel-frappé whatever tastes surprisingly good. They avoid the crowded areas and stick to the quieter paths, making a valid effort to catch up on the past fifteen years in each other’s lives. 

Leon tells him all about studying at LMU, groaning about the course load and voicing excitement about the internship and clinic hours he’ll get to start soon. Mario recounts winning the Bundesliga and spills some secrets about Säbener, after which Leon makes him promise to get him tickets for a game. They reminisce about Memmingen and Leon makes him laugh hard enough to almost shoot coffee out of his nose when he shares stories about their former classmates, giving a biting commentary about the ones they used to dislike.

It’s a great evening and it’s almost dark by the time they reach the edge of the park, the first stars appearing overhead as they make their way towards one of the iron wrought gates. Mario’s phone buzzes just as he’s about to go into detail on the time he actually met Andrea Pirlo and he gives Leon an apologetic look as he takes the call. 

“Hello?”

“How’s the date going?” Ann sounds cheerful, the noise in the background indicating she’s out somewhere.

Mario rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you get overly involved in other people’s business?”

“No, not once,” Ann replies, sounding completely unconcerned. “Are you still with him? Have you made out? If you can’t talk, just reply with ‘Yes, mom, I’ll call you later.’”

“Goodbye, Ann,” Mario sighs, disconnecting the call with an entirely involuntary huff of laughter. 

Leon raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “What was that?” 

“My friend,” Mario says, shaking his head. “Not important. I told her about meeting you and she’s got this crazy idea that this is a date.” 

He nearly winces, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth. A careful glance at Leon reveals that his friend is smiling, shaking his head a little. “That _is_ crazy. This is not a date.” 

“Thank you,” Mario grins. “I kept telling her, we-“ 

“No, let me finish,” Leon interrupts him, holding up a hand. “This is _clearly_ me using all the skills at my disposal – which includes Lotte by the way – to butter you up, so once I _do_ ask you out by the end of the night, you’ll say yes.”

Time appears to freeze as Mario stares at Leon, taking in the calm expression on his face and wondering whether he misheard. “What?” he finally croaks. 

“You. Me. Dinner, maybe a movie. Maybe coffee at your place, if things go really well,” Leon says, smiling easily, like this is not the single most unexpected thing to happen tonight. “A date. What do you say?” 

*

“I knew it!” Ann punches the air, which is a disturbing look on her, Mario thinks. 

He gives her his best glare from where he’s spread out on his couch, legs dangling over the arm rest and unfortunately not long enough to be able to kick at her where she’s sitting in the beanbag chair. “How is that helpful right now? I didn’t ask you over here so you could gloat at me!”

“Well, it comes free with the advice you’re after, so deal with it,” Ann retorts smartly, her ponytail slipping over her shoulder as she leans forward to grab another gummy bear out of the bowl on the couch table. “You want another red one?” 

“Please,” Mario mutters, holding out his hand blindly until she drops three of the red gelatin candies into his palm. But even the sweet, artificial taste isn’t enough to console him right now.

“So,” Ann begins and Mario cracks open one eye to look at her, sitting with her legs crossed like a supermodel version of a Buddha. “What did you tell him?”

Mario takes his time eating the gummy bears, only answering when he’s swallowed the last bite. “I said yes. We’re going out next Friday.” 

Ann sits up straighter, Mario watching wearily as her expression brightens, turns from carefully assessing into sheer delight. “That’s brilliant! I can’t believe you didn’t lead with that when you called me!”

Mario groans and grabs one of the pillows next to him to put on his face. It only takes a second until it gets ripped away, Ann hitting him in the side with it. “Stop that! What is the problem here? A gorgeous guy asks you out and you agreed. This sounds like nothing but good news in my book.” 

“You haven’t even seen him yet,” Mario protests, trying to take the pillow away from her without getting up. She evades him easily and gives him a look that makes him feel sheepish for trying. “How do you know he’s gorgeous?” 

“I didn’t until just now,” she smirks, outright laughing when Mario scowls at her. “Now stop trying to evade the question. How is any of this a problem?”

Mario worries at his bottom lip, trying to think of a way to phrase this that won’t make him sound like a thirteen-year-old. “I just…I don’t know how to date.” 

Ann scoffs. “What are you talking about, you’ve been with tons of guys.”

“Thanks,” Mario says drily and she waves a hand. “You know what I mean. This isn’t exactly your first time around the block.” 

“Yeah, actually it is,” Mario shoots back, a bit annoyed now. “I’ve never actually _had_ a date.”

_Unless you count that one time in Berlin._ The memory making his stomach cramp. So much of that had felt like something a couple might do, going sightseeing and dancing in the crowd at the concert, Marco’s arms tight around him. When he’d curled up against Marco’s chest that night, he’d closed his eyes and for once allowed himself the luxury of illusion, pretended they were just two people in love getting away over the weekend in a city far from home. The pitifulness of that weekend being the single most romantic memory he has isn’t lost on him. 

Ann is watching him and when he makes himself look at her again, she gives him a smile that has him wondering how much she saw on his face just now. Her voice doesn’t give anything away when she speaks. “It comes down to this: Do you want to go? Try and forget about everything else for a second and just ask yourself that question. Do you want to go out with him?” 

Mario swallows, her piercing eyes making it hard to meet her gaze. The thing is, he _does_ want to. And it’s not just the flattery of having someone like Leon being interested in Mario. Ever since Leon asked him and he agreed, the thought of actually going through with it has made him in turns queasy and excited, his stomach a swarming mess every time he so much as thinks about next Friday. But it’s not that easy. Yes, seeing Leon again was wonderful and they’re probably going to have a good time, regardless of whether Mario behaves like a total idiot. His friend already proved he has a gift for putting Mario at ease after all. 

That doesn’t change the fact that there are two articles of clothing hidden in easy reach beneath his bed and that the thought of having to give them up is enough to drive Mario into a full-blown panic attack. How can he even contemplate going out with Leon while that still holds true? 

“I want to,” he admits softly. “But you know it’s not that easy.” 

When he meets Ann’s eyes this time, he’s surprised by the raw sympathy he finds there, her voice almost gentle as she answers. “I do. But I think this might be a chance for you. To move on with your life, at least see what else is out there. Have a bit of fun. You’re not going to get over him by holing up here and reliving what the two of you had.”

The truth in that is a little too sharp to be ignored and Mario feels the bite of it, slicing straight through the objections that spring readily to mind. He stretches to take another handful of gummy bears, sorting out the white ones and tossing them over at Ann, who catches them single-handedly. She doesn’t say anything else, allowing Mario to work his way through the pile of candies in silence. 

The last one is raspberry flavored, which brings a brief smile to Mario’s face as he remembers the time Marco complained about that particular taste. The bitter sting is quick to follow and its part of what makes Mario’s decision, the weariness at the familiarity of that feeling filling him to the core. 

“I hope you’re free next Friday,” he says with forced levity, making himself meet Ann’s eyes as she raises her eyebrows at him. “Because I won’t be able to go through with this without a significant amount of hand holding.” 

*

The following week passes so slowly Mario is sure that someone out there is manipulating the time-space-continuum to screw with him. Jérôme invites him over for barbecuing on Sunday, which mostly results in Lamia and Soley taking turns to decree Mario their pony as he lugs them around Jérôme’s backyard piggy-back style. Physical therapy continues and the med staff is finally confident enough to tell him that he’ll be able to make his debut for Bayern in about two weeks. 

The news is greeted by much enthusiasm from his teammates and Mario is happy, too, he is. It’s just that he’s allocating so much of his time to worrying about the coming Friday, that he has little energy left for anything else. By Wednesday he’s finally talked himself into asking David for advice, as much as he hates involving even more people in this. Waiting to catch David on his own makes Mario feel a little creepy, but he finally gets his opportunity when his friend comes to drag him from the gym right before lunch. 

Since Thiago joined team training two days before, it’s just Mario in there for now, but he still takes a quick glance around before sharing what’s been on his mind. To David’s credit, he listens without interrupting once, only raising his eyebrows when Mario is done. “So you bagged the hot rugged guy, after all.” 

Mario groans. “Why did I think you might be the least helpful about this?” 

David scoffs. “Because you think I’m awesome. And you’re right. Hold onto your lily white ass, bro, because I’m about to drop some knowledge on you.” 

“Who talks like that?” Mario wonders aloud and David puts a hand on his face, probably in an attempt to shush him. 

“Silence. I’m imparting wisdom here.” He frowns, like he’s trying to remember something. “Let me get this straight. You’re afraid because you have no idea what to do on an actual date, right?” 

Mario nods and David spreads his hands, his entire demeanor unconcerned. “Just don’t be nervous. Dates are easy. It’s like you’re hanging out, but there’s sex at the end.” 

Mario stares at him, torn between the urge to laugh and slap David over the head. Preferably with something suitably heavy. “That’s it? That’s your advice? Don’t be nervous? My faith in your gay Yoda abilities is shaken, just so you know.” 

“Hey,” David exclaims, just when the door to the gym opens and Thiago and Jérôme walk in. “First of all, I am an _awesome_ gay Yoda. Second of all, Star Wars sucks, so fuck off, Götze.” 

“It does _not_ -“ Mario begins indignantly, getting ready to defend Star Wars with all the fervor his ten-year-old self would expect from him. He gets interrupted by Thiago dropping down next to them, looking curiously from David to Mario. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Mario has a _date_ ,” David sing-songs, snorting at the betrayed look Mario gives him. “That’s what you get for dissing my advice, man. Besides, he might be able to help.” 

“Help with what?” Jérôme asks, seating himself on one of the spinning machines and pedaling lazily as he leans back to regard them. 

Mario rolls his eyes. “Great, let’s involve everyone in this. How about we get Toni as well. _Don’t_ ,” he snaps, when David pretends to get up. 

“Would you relax?” David says. “Alright, here’s the deal. Tall, dark and handsome from the club is taking this one here out on a date Friday night. And he’s panicking about it.” 

“Thanks, David,” Mario groans, burying his face in his hands. 

“What’s the problem?” Thiago asks, sounding confused. “Wear your black jeans and bam, that’s you getting laid.” 

Mario makes a strangled noise and Jérôme pats his shoulder reassuringly. “I think what Thiago is trying to say is, he’s already asked you out. And he seemed pretty into you at the club. You’re probably freaking out over nothing and it’s going to go great. Isn’t that what you wanted to say?” He turns to look at Thiago, who shrugs. 

“Not really. I was just saying his ass looks great in those jeans.” 

Mario throws up his hands and gets up, ignoring David’s cackle and Jérôme’s groan as he stalks past a confused Thiago. “You guys are the worst. And stop looking at my ass,” he adds when he’s almost by the door, their laughter following him out into the hallway. 

That night he calls Ann, which turns into a whole different argument, as they violently disagree about what he should wear on Friday. Ann supports Thiago’s pants idea (though Mario isn’t stupid enough to tell her that she’s the second person to suggest those), while Mario wants to go with something much less…eye-catching and possibly even subdued. By the end of it both of them are thoroughly annoyed with one another and Mario grabs the DVD off the shelf without even thinking about it, fixing himself a smoothie while the intro plays on his flat screen.

It’s only when he’s fifteen minutes into the movie, thinking about texting David how very wrong he is about so many things, when something stirs at the back of his mind. On the screen a whole lot of droids are getting dismantled Jedi-style and Mario suddenly feels sick as he remembers the last time he saw these movies and even more specifically, who he saw them with. His stomach flips like it can’t settle on whether what he’s feeling is dread or a shivery thread of excitement, the memories rushing back to him faster and faster now, filling his head like quicksand. 

The night he last saw one of these movies, Marco fucked him for the very first time, after nearly making Mario lose his mind by teasing him throughout all of the stupid Trade Federation Blockade and boring Tattooine part. Mario remembers hearing some of the godawful dialogue in the background, washed away by the sharp arousal when Marco pushed into him for the first time, fulfilling so many of the fantasies Mario had been carrying around for years. 

The silence in his living room seems very loud when he flicks off the TV, staring blankly at the dark screen for a while before getting up. His bed is still messy with all the different clothes he drew out of his closet and left there during the call with Ann and Mario doesn’t bother removing them before sliding under the sheets, strangely comforted by the unusual weight of the comforter. It’s almost like someone has an arm wrapped around him. He lies quietly in the dark, turning onto his side so he can use one hand to reach underneath the bed comfortably, fingers fumbling across the hardwood floor until they find soft fabric. 

Telling himself that this is progress, Mario falls asleep dragging his fingertips across the fabric, a caress that’s soothing despite its utter futility.

*

Two days later, Mario is approaching the front of the restaurant Leon told him they would meet at, wondering for the umpteenth time whether the combination of button-down and pants is too casual or too fancy. Leon didn’t mention much about his plans for the night, which makes it kind of hard to gauge the appropriateness of any outfit. David seemed tense about that when Mario pulled him aside earlier, a tiny line appearing between his eyebrows as he glanced around quickly. “Ok, listen, I know we were joking around, but this is actually important. I’m hoping he’s not dumb enough to take you anywhere that’s too obviously romantic, but even when it’s just a normal restaurant, try and sit next to him or something. It’ll look a lot less like a date for any casual observers with smartphones that way.”

Mario thinks Leon is too smart not to realize he can’t take Mario anywhere that’s heavily frequented by couples, but even so, David’s unease rubbed off on him, added to the anxiety that’s been building in him all week. It’s why he’s glad to see that the restaurant, while busy, looks much more of a student-overrun hipster place than your average white-table-cloth-candle-light affair. He’s approaching the entrance and trying to clamp down on the hint of panic when he realizes he’ll have to decide whether to go in by himself or not, when Leon’s voice makes him turn around, nearly sighing in relief.

Leon looks ridiculously handsome in his plaid button down and jeans and Mario is very glad he opted for the vaguely casual version of the outfits he and Ann finally agreed on. He’s even gladder when Leon greets him by simply clasping his hand before pulling him into a quick, casual hug, obviously aware that anything else would look suspicious. Despite the briefness of the contact, Mario catches a whiff of Leon’s scent, a mixture of soap, air and dog hair that makes him smile. 

“Were you out with Lotte?” 

“Yeah,” Leon admits, looking a little sheepish as he holds the door for Mario. “I showered after, but I’m afraid the drawback to having a dog is never being able to get rid of the smell entirely. Sorry.” 

Mario shakes his head, glancing around the noisy restaurant curiously. “Don’t worry about it. What is this place?” 

“Kind of awesome, right?” Leon has to raise his voice in order to make himself heard above the buzz. “My friends and I come here a lot. It’s a bit overrun, but the food is amazing and the prices are great.” 

Hence the amount of students and younger people making up almost ninety percent of the crowd, Mario notes drily. The entire restaurant’s flair veers towards hipster-style, the high ceiling covered in brightly painted pipes. Every single table seems to be filled, but Leon stops a waitress and after she checks something on the tablet she’s carrying, she leads them towards a tiny corner table, leaving them with two menus and the promise to be right back. 

Mario already feels himself relaxing as they sit down, the crowded atmosphere lending the place an anonymity he didn’t dare to hope for. The menu is a bit of a surprise though and he looks up to catch Leon watching him warily, worrying at his bottom lip. “Yeah, so, I kind of forgot to mention this place is vegan? Hope that’s okay. We can totally find somewhere-“ 

“It’s fine,” Mario interrupts him quickly, smiling away the tiny sting of disappointment he feels. He could really go for some nicely prepared chicken right now, but overall, he’s pleasantly surprised by Leon’s choice. He’ll have a protein shake later tonight to make up for it. “Tell me what’s good?” 

Leon does and the food actually turns out to be delicious, though Mario still thinks his salad could have gotten its final kick by adding eggs to it, which he wisely keeps to himself. They take ages to finish their main portions, partly because they’re extremely generous (Mario is getting an idea why this place might be so attractive to students looking to score a healthy, cheap meal), but mostly because they’re too busy catching each other up on their families and all the twists and turns of the past fifteen years. 

When Leon tells him his sister is doing her gap year in Australia, Mario almost inhales his ice tea, coughing as his eyes water. Leon pounds his back until Mario waves him off, grinning despite the flush on his face and his hoarse throat. “Franzi? But she’s three!” 

Leon laughs. “Well, believe it or not, time hasn’t passed her by either. She went right after graduation and she’s been there for more than five months now. Loves it.” 

“God,” Mario mutters, trying to imagine the little girl he remembers as a woman old enough to go live on another continent. “This reunion thing is kind of spacey.” 

“Totally,” Leon agrees with a smile. “I mean, I still can’t believe it sometimes when I look at you. I keep expecting a chubby-cheeked five-year-old.”

“Got one out of two,” Mario says drily, raising his glass to take another sip of his ice tea.

Leon hums, not taking his eyes off Mario’s face as he answers. “Well. Kind of glad about the not a five-year-old part, though.” 

It’s the first time tonight their conversation has edged away from safe territory and Mario experiences a jolt of surprise when he realizes he hasn’t even thought about this being a date in the entire time they sat here. Leon appears to see some of it on his face, because his smile turns contemplative as they regard each other across the table. 

“Are you ready for part two of this venture?” 

Mario nods, not entirely trusting his voice. Leon waves a waiter over, paying for both their meals, which makes Mario feel vaguely guilty, despite knowing this place isn’t going to bankrupt Leon any time soon. They’re out on the street five minutes later and Leon suggests walking, promising their next destination isn’t that far off. On the way, Mario tries to wheedle him into telling him where they’re going, but Leon just shakes his head, pointing out that would be spoiling the surprise.

The surprise turns out to be a tiny movie theatre and Mario can’t help but raise his eyebrows at Leon, startling himself with the challenging look he gives his friend. “That’s it? We’re seeing a movie?”

“O ye of little faith,” Leon grins, opening the door and gesturing grandly towards the stuffy little lobby, that even from here smells strongly of popcorn. “After you.” 

Mario has to admit the theatre possesses a certain charm and the seats are comfortable enough, even though there’s only two row’s worth of them in the tiny viewing room. There are only three other people in here with them and they spread out accordingly, putting their feet up on the seats in front of them. They’re both still stuffed from dinner, but Leon offers him his coke to sip on and Mario can’t help but notice their fingers brushing when he hands it over, wondering whether this is what a date is supposed to feel like, that spark of excitement at the smallest amount of skin contact making him feel like he’s fourteen years old again. 

There’s no trailers and Mario is about to complain about that, when Leon takes a gentle hold of his wrist, drawing his attention. “Wait for it.” 

_Wait for what_ , is already at the tip of Mario’s tongue when the screen fills with a familiar logo, the melody accompanying it floating through the tiny showing room. Mario actually gapes, because this can’t be happening. It’s been _fifteen years_. He turns to look at Leon, who seems delighted at Mario’s reaction. 

“I was wondering whether you would even remember,” he whispers and Mario just shakes his head, because seriously? 

“We must have watched it more than thirty times, of course I remember. We fought over who would be Rufio. How did you- I mean, how is this-“ 

“They show a lot of old eighties and nineties flicks here,” Leon explains in a low voice. “When I saw they had this showing, I knew I had to ask you out for tonight.” 

On the screen, the production logo gives way to the introduction of _Hook_ and Mario can’t prevent the smile spreading on his face as he looks at Leon, so happy all of a sudden that he went to that club with David. He turns his attention back to the screen once the actual movie starts, but stays aware of Leon at his side the entire time, especially once their favorite parts come up and his friend leans closer so they can utter the lines along with the characters, erupting into smothered snickering each time and thoroughly annoying the other guests. 

Two hours later they’re still laughing as they’re making their way towards Mario’s car, the night cool and clear around them. “I can’t believe you almost got us kicked out of a movie theatre,” Leon exclaims. “I’ve been going there for years and that’s never happened to me before.”

“Maybe you were going with the wrong people,” Mario retorts as he slides into the driver’s seat. 

“Maybe,“ Leon says, his smile turning into something heavier, more promising as he closes the door behind himself. Mario has to swallow under that gaze, again suddenly reminded that tonight isn’t just two old friends hanging out together, despite the reminiscing and casual conversations so far. He wants to say something that will dissipate the expectant tension, something clever and unconcerned that will turn them back to the easy mood from before. He can’t think of anything and then there’s no time, because Leon is leaning in, kissing him before he has a chance to speak. 

It’s odd how much of the human ability to recollect past events is tied into sensory memory. The first touch of Leon’s lips is pleasant, maybe a bit unusual due to the soft scratch of his beard against Mario’s chin. There’s a split second when everything’s fine, the pleasant prickle of experiencing a first kiss with someone sliding down Mario’s spine and making his stomach flutter pleasantly as he opens his mouth to kiss Leon back. And then it’s not fine anymore. 

_Marco used to kiss you like this. He was the last person you kissed. The last person you kissed in a long time, actually. How long? A year? More than that? When was the first time Marco kissed you? When was the last time Marco kissed you? God, when was the last time Marco-_

Mario pulls back with a gasp, his heart racing as he tries to control his wildly spiraling train of thought. But there’s no helping it now, because he’s down the hole, chasing the remnants of his thoughts like trying to catch a glimpse of the white rabbit’s tail. Why can’t he remember the last time Marco kissed him? And why does his breath still sound like this, all sharp and too fast like he just ran a marathon? 

“-rio. Mario!” 

He glances at Leon, realizing for the first time that he’s been calling his name for a while. “I’m sorry,” he manages, still trying desperately to control his breathing. “I can’t-“ 

“Hey, try not to talk for a second, okay,” Leon murmurs, stroking his arm. “I think you’re hyperventilating a little. We don’t have to do anything. Let’s just sit here for a bit, yeah?” 

Mario nods choppily, gazing out the windshield into the dark of the night and concentrating on nothing but the sound of his own breath, the gentle touch on his arm. He hates himself for doing it, but like this it’s easy to imagine there’s someone else’s hand on his body and it turns the caress from gentle to soothing, his breath coming easier as he closes his eyes and gives himself over to the fantasy. 

It’s still Leon next to him when he opens his eyes again though, looking incredibly worried and Mario hates himself more than ever. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t know-“ 

“It’s okay,” Leon says quickly. “You don’t have to explain, if you don’t want to. We can have this go down as the first of our epic hang outs, yeah? As friends. It doesn’t have to be a date.”

Mario shakes his head miserably. “I wanted it to be a date. And I wanted you to kiss me.” 

“Okay,” Leon says slowly, sounding so confused that Mario would laugh, if this whole situation weren’t so far from funny. “I want that, too? The kissing and dating part, I mean.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Mario whispers, voice threatening to give out. 

“Because of you being…who you are?” Leon tries and Mario shakes his head, right before nodding once. 

“No. I mean, yes, that, too. But there’s other stuff and I don’t think I can- I don’t want to involve you in it, it wouldn’t be fair.” 

“Other stuff,” Leon repeats, sounding more sure of himself now. “Alright. If I could make a suggestion though? Maybe you could tell me about it. Let me decide for myself what I do and don’t want to be involved in.” 

Mario almost laughs at that, because God. If only Leon knew, what he just asked. Tell him about Marco? Mario himself isn’t sure what there is to tell. But this is Leon and he deserves some kind of answer after the disaster this night has turned into. So Mario takes a deep breath and tries to think of a way to start. 

He ends up talking for nearly half an hour and when he finishes, his voice has turned hoarse from the constant strain of trying to keep it level. He tells Leon everything, because it’s surprisingly hard to stop once he’s going, the story flowing from his lips almost of its own accord. He tells him about being in love with Marco for years and about that kiss on Robert’s birthday, the morning after. He tells him about his idiotic decision and the ferventness with which he clung to it even when it was obvious he was going to hurt himself even worse by doing so. He even tells him about the transfer and the abrupt end to everything it brought about, the terrible silence ever since then. 

Leon stays quiet the whole time, letting Mario go at his own pace. He stays silent for a while longer even after Mario has stopped talking and when he speaks, his voice betrays nothing. “You still have feelings for him then.” 

That’s one way of putting it, Mario thinks with a touch of hysteria, but he only nods. Leon scrubs a hand across his jaw, tousling his beard in a truly ridiculous way without noticing. “What if I told you I’m okay with that?” 

Mario stares at him, honestly at a loss what to say. “Leo-” 

“We don’t have to rush into anything,” Leon says softly. “I get that you think you’re not ready for this. But do you really believe any of that is going to go away without you even trying?”

It’s a question that Mario has asked himself too often to not react to it now and Leon must see it on his face, because he continues. “If you tell me no, that’s completely fine. We can be friends, I’d like that. But I really believe we have a chance at something here. And I hate to think you won’t go for it, just because you want to protect me.”

Mario looks at him then, takes in the unflinching expression and the determined line of his jaw. It makes him want to cry. Because finally, here is someone to offer him all the things he’s been hoping for, for as long as he can remember. Someone, who actually wants to give them to Mario. Does it matter then, that he still wishes it was another offering them? Doesn’t he at least owe it to himself to try? 

“We would have to take it really slow.” 

Leon’s eyes widen at Mario’s hesitant words, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looks him over. “Snail’s pace,” he promises, so solemnly that Mario almost laughs, his entire body jittery and tight with nerves. Leon’s eyes hold nothing but warmth when they meet his gaze and his voice is soft. “Are you sure?”

Mario just nods, hoping that time won’t make a liar out of him. 

*

The following weeks prove that Leon at least, was completely serious when he made his promise about taking it slow. He and Mario text every day and meet up nearly as often, mostly to simply get a cup of coffee or to take Lotte out in the park near Mario’s apartment. Leon teaches him all of Lotte’s commands and tricks, while Mario shares more locker room gossip than is probably strictly advisable. They go back to the small cinema once, catching _Jurassic Park_ and this time actually getting thrown out, after Leon won’t stop offering unwanted commentary on the CGI effects and plot holes. 

But they don’t go any further than kissing goodnight in Mario’s hallway (mostly with Lotte trying to edge her way between them to be part of the fun) and though there’s still part of him that yearns for Marco each and every time, Mario _is_ coming to enjoy it. Leon is an excellent kisser and he’s ridiculously tall and solid against him, keeping an easy hold of Mario even with Lotte doing her best to unbalance them in her enthusiasm. 

Mario tells neither the guys nor Ann of his and Leon’s agreement, reluctant to offer any more details on their relationship, which results in endless curiosity and frustration from David and Ann respectively. David’s constant attempts to press Mario on any more information actually escalates to the point where Mario uses his oblivious teammates as decoys to keep his friend from asking a thousand questions in their presence. That means he spends the training sessions he’s finally been allowed to join sticking to Thomas’ side, ignoring the holes David is trying to glare into the back of his head. 

For all his time at Bayern, Mario thought he was looking forward to finally being on the pitch more than anything else after his long injury. But now, with the Bundesliga season going into its second week and his debut finally within reach, that flame of desire has grown into a roaring fire, consuming everything in its path and making it hard to concentrate on anything but his performance in training and the test matches. Well. Anything but one thing. 

Bayern has won their first two matches of the season, but so has BVB. Mario recorded both of them, watching them with the lights in his living room turned off, like the darkness could lend the act a secretiveness that would make him forget about the solid core of ice in the pit of his stomach that forms every time he sees Marco on screen. He looks good. His hair is different and Mario wonders when he stopped dyeing it. 

He’s playing great. Mario wishes that weren’t so hard to swallow, but it is, even more so than seeing him again, so different from any of the pictures he caught over Instagram or twitter in the last few weeks. Marco clicks beautifully with the new striker and he’s at the center of both games’ action, his speed and skill at full display every time he receives the ball. When the camera lingers on him for the longest time for the penalty he takes in the second game, Mario actually has to look away. 

On the weekend Mario is set to make his debut in the Bayern jersey, there’s no need for him to record the BVB match. They’re playing on Friday night and he catches the game live, watching how Marco delivers his best performance of the season so far, creating chances left and right and delivering the assist for Lewy’s goal. Watching Marco disappear in a knot of yellow jerseys, Mario promises himself that the bitter jealousy will fade over time. That one day he’ll be happy to see his former teammates score and celebrate without him, as long as it’s not against Bayern. 

The next day is a perfect late summer day, Munich thrumming with the energy of its populace enjoying the weekend and warm temperatures. Mario isn’t really in any position to enjoy it as his nervousness racks up, peaking when they’re about to enter Allianz for their warm-up. The others offer their congratulations on his debut, Thomas slinging an arm around his shoulders as they walk out onto the pitch; the roar of the fan’s greeting them.

The cheer that goes around the arena when his name gets read for the starting eleven is like balm on his frayed nerves, but Mario still can’t entirely shed the twisting anxiety in his stomach, the long time out and the thought of playing in a red jersey for the first time turning his knees watery. They finish their warm-up and head back to the locker room, everyone milling about while Pep pulls some of them aside to give last instructions. 

With lack of anything else to do, Mario checks his phone, scrolling past the countless messages wishing him good luck. He’ll have to make do with that today. His parents seemed terribly guilty when telling him they wouldn’t make it back in time for his debut, their vacation only coming to an end a week later. Mario waved it off, too aware of the things they went through in the past few months to begrudge them their well-deserved holiday. Felix is with them and Fabian is on the last leg of his backpacking tour, his return scheduled for two weeks from today. Since Ann has an exam in Düsseldorf, Mario assumed he’d be by himself, which makes Leon’s message a tad mysterious.

_You look tiny from up here._

He’s already typing his reply, when his phone chirps again. 

_Still cute though. Kind of like a hot Lego._

There are so many things Mario wants to reply to that, but he settles for the most obvious one. 

_where r u?!_

_Nordkurve. Your spelling is killing my soul by the way._

Mario is still busy staring at the message, when a second one lights up his phone screen. 

_Surprise. You didn’t actually think I’d miss my boyfriend’s first game, did you?_

They’re being called out and Mario is glad, his mind too stuck on the word ‘boyfriend’ to formulate anything but nonsense anyway. It’s not like he wasn’t aware that what they were doing could be called a relationship. But seeing it spelled out like that is different, more real somehow. He suddenly realizes he’s grinning like a fool and Thomas gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, obviously taking it for excitement for their upcoming game. 

And he _is_ excited, the warm rush of happiness unexpected and washing away the nervousness from before. He’s going to play football again, chase across a pitch with his teammates while the crowd cheers them on frenetically. He’s going to do what he loves most in the entire world, after going for so long without it. He’ll get to carry his new team’s colors and crest on the field for the first time. And his boyfriend is here to see it all. 

Yes, Mario thinks as they climb up the stairs into the Allianz, craning his head to look towards the Nordkurve. He is definitely excited. 

*

The game is wonderful, though Mario supposes he would have enjoyed it even if they lost by five goals. Nürnberg defends well and their efforts are thwarted in the second half, David missing the chance to convert the penalty they get afforded after Nilssen takes Arjen down. Mario gets subbed of sometime around the seventy minute mark, his energy finally running out after all the time he missed in the last few months. Toni comes on for him and Mario heads toward the bench happily, basking in the cheers from the Allianz. A few minutes leader they erupt once again when Franck heads a cross from Philipp in perfectly and Mario jumps up and gets pulled into an enthusiastic headlock by Thiago, who got replaced by Thomas earlier. Arjen perfects the result with a solo and a goal he scores ten minutes later. 

Mario can’t wait to get to his phone, scrolling through the onslaught of congratulations to get to Leon’s message. 

_Heading out with the rest of the unwashed masses now ;) Dinner?_

Mario bites down on his bottom lip, hesitating only briefly before typing out his reply. 

_my place. don’t bring Lotte this time_.

*

“I brought wine,” Leon says as a way of greeting when Mario opens the door, stepping into the flat and handing him the bottle. “I wanted champagne, but this is all they had at the store at the corner. Hi.” He leans down to brush a kiss against Mario’s mouth, his beard a familiar sensation by now. Congratulations. You were great.”

“How would you know,” Mario teases, folding his hands behind the back of Leon’s neck. “You were too far up to see.” 

“Well, your Lego-self looked great,” Leon murmurs against his neck, his breath a warm rush against Mario’s skin, making him shiver. “Bavarian to boot.” 

“I _was_ born here,” Mario allows, pulling Leon closer for another kiss. 

They’re making out in the hallway like they’ve done dozens of times in the past two weeks and that’s probably the reason Leon doesn’t catch on that something’s different until Mario has pulled him halfway across the living room by his belt loops, drawing back and looking at him with something like confusion. “Where are we going?” 

“My bedroom,” Mario says, purposefully offhand and delighting in Leon’s astonishment, his mouth dropping open. 

“But-“ Leon is so flustered he’s struggling for words. “What about- Snail’s pace!” 

Mario tips his head to one side. “I reconsidered.” 

Observing Leon’s shock turn into anticipation is more of a turn on than Mario thought and it makes him swallow, the heat in the other man’s eyes obvious where his gaze rests on Mario. He grabs the front of Leon’s jersey (he’s still decked out in Bayern colors) and pulls gently. This time there’s no resistance and Leon follows him to the bedroom, glancing around curiously, taking in the large bed and spotless floor. 

He turns to Mario with a grin. “You planned this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mario lies, pulling off his hoodie and throwing it onto the arm chair in the corner. 

“Yes you do,” Leon laughs, following Mario’s example and shrugging off the jersey. “Your living room is always a complete mess. There’s no way your bedroom’s usually this tidy.” 

“It must be sad to be so paranoid all the time,” Mario says with an exaggerated shake of his head, yelping when Leon tackles him to the bed. “Hey, careful! I just became un-injured. If you break my leg, Bayern will-“ 

Leon cuts him off with a kiss, sliding his tongue into Mario’s mouth when he parts his lips to protest. “On second thought, screw Bayern,” he amends, once Leon lets him come up for air, biting down on his kiss-flushed lips. 

“That’s the spirit,” Leon agrees, sounding breathless. “Now take off that shirt.” 

Leon is gorgeous. It’s not like this is news to Mario, he’s spent the last two weeks pressed up against his body while snogging him stupid after all. But seeing him like this, naked and hard, his curly hair tousled and falling into his face, is something else entirely. His height makes him look lean, but there’s a ripple of muscle underneath the tanned skin that makes Mario swallow, breath coming faster as he traces along Leon’s biceps. 

He barely has time to think about the fact that Leon’s seeing him naked for the first time as well before they’re kissing again, pressing together from head to toe and gasping at the skin contact. Leon’s chest is thickly furred and Mario can’t resist combing through it with his fingers, fascinated by the coarse texture of the hair there. He brushes against Leon’s nipple almost by accident, but the sharp intake of breath lets him know he’s discovered something good here and so he does it again, smiling when Leon lets his forehead rest against his shoulder in response, groaning softly. 

It’s _good_. They’re taking their time mapping each other’s bodies, discovering as they go along. Leon traces a path down his stomach so slowly Mario nearly jumps out of his skin by the time he reaches his cock, the soft scratch of his beard making it even harder not to come on the spot as he takes Mario in his mouth. The temptation to just let Leon finish him off that way is strong, but Mario resists, even as the wet friction makes it hard to think. 

He fumbles beneath the pillow blindly, finally pulling out the packet of lube and condoms he stored there earlier, dropping them onto his own chest. The rustle of packaging makes Leon glance up and he pulls off slowly, delivering a last flick of tongue that makes Mario’s toes curl and seriously has him questioning his own sanity at putting a stop to this. 

Leon picks up the lube, turning it over with nimble fingers as he raises an eyebrow at Mario. His beard is tousled and his eyes look very blue when Mario meets their gaze. “You really want to?” 

Mario just nods, knowing that if he tries to speak, his voice would come out as a croak. Leon smiles then, so unguarded and affectionate that Mario can’t help but smile back as he reaches out to tuck one of Leon’s curls back behind his ear. 

“Alright.” Leon’s voice is thick with arousal. “You want to do the honors?” 

Remembering all the times he did just that at the clubs he used to frequent, Mario shakes his head and closes his eyes, waiting for the first brush of Leon’s fingers against him. When it still hasn’t come almost a minute later, he opens his head and freezes as he takes in the sight in front of him. Leon has shifted to prop himself up with one elbow, his other hand behind his back as he obviously goes about preparing himself. 

Mario stares at him, unease sliding into his belly like a blade, dulling the arousal that was simmering there a minute ago. Leon isn’t suggesting he- 

“What are you doing?” He blurts it out before he can think better of it, too surprised to filter himself. 

Leon opens his eyes to look at him, the strain of his shoulders relaxing when he pulls his hand from behind his back. “Hm?” 

“I thought you would-“ Mario makes a gesture that no sane person would ever be able to interpret, but Leon gets it. 

“Oh! Sorry! But I mean, you can go next time?” Leon sounds entirely unconcerned and Mario feels even queasier, all of his protests stuck at the back of his throat with his building anxiety. 

“Next time?” 

“Sure. We’ll take turns. Can you imagine there’s people out there who never switch it up?” Leon laughs a little, eyes fixed on where he’s squeezing more lube onto his fingers, thankfully not seeing the frozen expression on Mario’s face. “I mean, if I wanted to be stuck in some sort of heteronormative bullshit like that, I wouldn’t be gay, you know?”

“Of course,” Mario says hollowly, his lips feeling numb. Any thought of telling Leon that he technically hasn’t done this before die a painful death and he grabs the condom off the sheets, opening the foil with fingers that shake so badly it takes him three tries to get it open. 

By the time he’s slipped the condom over his cock, giving it two quick, subtle strokes while Leon’s back is turned to help with his flagging erection, Leon is on his stomach, legs slightly spread for Mario to slide up behind him. It should be an inviting sight, the powerful lines of his back and curve of his ass on display and yet all Mario wants to do is run, anything to not have to go through with this and pretend that he has any idea what he’s doing. 

That would involve a confession he’s never going to make now though and so he forces himself to nudge Leon’s thighs apart, taking a hold of his own cock with a trembling hand. He might not have done this before, but Mario’s been on the receiving end too often not to go slowly, drawing out the first push inside and waiting for any sign of distress from Leon that might indicate Mario’s hurting him. He almost wishes there would be. 

Leon makes no noise apart from a soft sigh though, drawing up one of his legs higher and causing Mario to slide into him even deeper. Swallowing hard, Mario grabs onto his hips and pulls back a little, rolling his own hips experimentally as he pushes back inside. It’s not bad. The friction is nice, a heightened experience of the few times he and Hanna had sex on the cot in her family’s small garden shed. 

It’s not great either. Mario is concentrating too hard on setting a smooth rhythm, not slipping out on the pull back and trying to find an angle that will maybe allow him to brush against Leon’s prostrate to lose himself to the act. He’s sweating heavily almost right away and too aware of it, wondering wildly whether that usually happens to him during sex as well and he’s just never noticed before. The constant friction keeps him hard, but he’s not even close to coming even after ten minutes (and has he ever been this aware of time passing before?) and when Leon groans beneath him he reacts quickly, pulling out and taking himself in hand.

When Leon flops onto his back to smile at him hazily, Mario has come as well, a hurried orgasm that was fuelled by panic as much as arousal. He ties off the condom and aims for the waste basket, dropping back onto the sheets heavily, shoulder brushing against Leon. The relief is its own sort of afterglow, his reasonable certainty that Leon didn’t notice his inexperience making it easier to tuck himself into Leon’s side, putting his head on his shoulder. 

They lie in silence for a few minutes and Mario is about to nod off, when a touch to his shoulder jerks him awake again. Leon smiles at him and presses a kiss to the shoulder he just touched, his beard rubbing against the skin there almost sensuously. “Come on. Let’s grab a shower before we fall asleep and stick to the sheets tomorrow.” 

Mario stares at him, the self-consciousness about the sweat still cooling in the small of his back and bend of his knees returning full force and persisting even as he follows Leon to the bathroom on stilted legs. The shower is nice, Leon grinning at him through the spray as he runs his soaped up hands over Mario’s chest, urging him to turn around so he can do his back. It should feel relaxing but Mario can’t seem to get rid of the tension in his shoulders, stiffening every line in his body. 

If Leon notices, he doesn’t say anything and they’re back in bed ten minutes later, slipping back beneath the sheets with freshly scrubbed skin. Leon makes an apologetic noise and Mario glances over to see him look sheepish, scrubbing trough his wet curls almost nervously. “I’m sorry, but do you have an extra sheet? I can’t really sleep sharing one, I get insanely overheated.” 

As requests go, this is an easy one, so there’s no reason to feel so rejected, Mario reminds himself as he digs a second sheet out of his closet and hands it to Leon, who slides over to make room for him. He pulls Mario into a long kiss once he joins him again, rubbing a thumb against his cheek and smiling against his mouth. “I had a good time tonight. You guys should win more often.”

It makes Mario smile despite the heavy ache in his chest and he kisses back, some of the tension in his back draining away with the soft caress. This _is_ nice and going to sleep freshly showered is by far not the worst thing. So Leon likes to have his own sheet, what’s the big deal? As long as he keeps kissing him like that, broad palm warm and heavy against his face, Mario can deal with it. 

It doesn’t explain why he’s still not asleep almost an hour later, the yearning for the two items hidden in the bottom drawer of his closet for now sharp and bright as he tosses and turns. 

*

He wakes to the smell of cooking food and when a quick glance reveals that he’s alone, Mario reluctantly drags himself out of bed, his sheet trailing after him as he makes his way into the kitchen. There’s food Mario is pretty sure he never bought spread out all over the counter and Leon is standing by the stove, wielding a spatula so expertly that Mario is impressed in spite of himself. It doesn’t hurt that he hasn’t put on a shirt yet, standing barefoot at the counter wearing only his jeans. 

Sliding onto one of the stools at the counter, Mario takes in the spread in front of him, poking curiously through one of the paper bags to unearth a basket of strawberries. Leon turns around at the crinkle of paper and smiles when he catches sight of Mario. “Hey, sleeping beauty. I thought I would have to coax you out of your blanket fort with a plate of pancakes or something.”

He comes over to press a kiss to his lips and Mario accepts it easily, keeping his mouth closed so there won’t be a strawberry incident. He draws his sheet tighter around himself once Leon draws back and his heat retreats as well. “What time is it?” 

“Half past,” Leon says, stepping back to the counter to stir whatever he’s preparing in the huge pan Mario’s mother got for him and which he’s never used before. 

Stifling a yawn, Mario contemplates dropping his forehead down against the counter and closing his eyes again. There’s no room though and so he stays reluctantly upright, watching the muscles shift in Leon’s back as he moves around the kitchen. “Noon?” 

Leon almost drops the egg he’s holding, barely managing to catch it with a quick reflex Mario can’t help but admire. Leon’s eyes are wide when he turns to face him. “No, half past eight.”

Mario stares at him, wondering whether he’s heard him wrong. “In the _morning_?”

Leon laughs, cracking the egg above the pan. “That’s usually what the sun being up means, Mar.” 

“But it’s _Sunday_ ,” Mario whines, putting down his head on the counter and deciding that whatever food wants to stick to his face can just go ahead and do so. 

“Well, what time do you usually get up?” Leon asks, sounding curious. 

“At a reasonable time,” Mario grumbles, feeling the outline of something squishy and round beneath his cheek as he speaks. Could be peaches. He hopes not. They’d be all mushy by now. 

“Which would be..?” Leon coaxes, his voice sounding closer now. 

Mario reluctantly cracks open one eye to glare at him. “I don’t know, eleven?” 

“Eleven?!” Leon boggles at him. “I’ve taken Lotte on her second walk by eleven!” 

“I’m not sure I like this quality in you,” Mario complains, closing his eyes again. “We can’t be friends anymore.” 

“Hey now,” Leon chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against Mario’s hair, who tries to swat him away without opening his eyes. “Be nice. I made you breakfast.” 

Mario contemplates this, deciding there’s some merit to Leon’s argument. Wrapping his sheet around himself like a toga, he slides off the stool to take his place at the table, critically surveying the plate Leon puts in front of him. It looks good enough, some sort of omelet and muesli and even more importantly, coffee. After half a cup and the omelet, Mario is almost at peace with the whole thing, despite the ungodly hour. Leon has some serious omelet making skills and he accepts Mario’s compliment graciously, leaning over to kiss him slowly and thoroughly, before getting up to clear the plates. 

Mario digs into his muesli bowl and pauses on the second spoonful when he tastes the raisins, shooting a quick glance to Leon’s turned back and wondering what the policy on this sort of thing is. Can he just spit them out or would that be a serious no go and insult his boyfriend’s muesli preparation skills? They don’t teach you this sort of thing in school. Before Mario can decide on one course of action over the other, Leon turns back around and catches the expression on his face. 

“Whoa, you okay? Did the milk go off or something?” 

Mario swallows with a grimace, shaking his head at the same time. “Ah, no. I don’t really eat raisins. Sorry.” He adds quickly, hoping that will take the sting out of it. 

“Oh, fuck. Are you allergic?” Leon asks, taking a step towards Mario in alarm. 

“No, nothing like that,” Mario assures him quickly, touched by the visible concern on Leon’s face. “I just don’t like them is all.” 

“Oh,” Leon says, relieved. “Are you sure? They’re so good for you! Why don’t you give them a try?”

_Because I’ve lived on this planet for twenty-one years now and never have raisins ever held the slightest appeal for me_ , Mario thinks, a tad annoyed at Leon’s insistence. But that would admittedly be pretty ungrateful in the face of all the effort Leon has gone through for him. So Mario takes another bite, suppressing the shudder when he accidentally bites down on one of the raisins. Leon beams at him when he’s finished, clearly happy with his persuasion skills. Mario tries to smile back, taking a huge gulp of orange juice to get rid of the taste. 

They clean up the kitchen together, clearing space in the refrigerator for the groceries Leon bought (at a local market apparently. Mario didn’t even know there was a market on Sunday) and letting the sink fill with soapy water to take care of the dishes. Leon is on dish duty while Mario dries and they make a good team, Leon turning up the radio halfway through. _Get Lucky_ comes on a few minutes later and Leon starts swaying where he stands, bumping Mario with his hip until he puts down the plate he’s holding, joining Leon in his ridiculous hopping around in the kitchen. Leon splashes him with some of the water from the sink which results in a battle that ends with both of them making out against the counter, Mario’s soaked shirt sticking against Leon’s naked chest. 

It’s nice and it’s domestic and Mario can’t wait to do it again, even if he has to get rid of that godawful muesli first. So what if last night wasn’t all he’d imagined it to be? The next time is bound to be less awkward, especially since Leon seemed adamant about the switching thing. Mario can deal with that, as long as Leon keeps calling him his boyfriend and does that thing with his beard that never fails to make Mario shiver. Things are going to be just fine. 

*

Their next game is against Freiburg three days later and they only manage a tie, Mario going off after an hour because he’s dead on his feet. They’re ahead until literally the last minute, when Höfler sneaks the ball past Manu, breaking the early winning streak they were on. The mood afterwards is strange, everyone pissed off at the last minute concession and their own thwarted efforts to score earlier. There’s something reassuring about it to Mario, the intense ambition he’s always felt mirrored in his teammates’ expression as they pack up their stuff and head towards the bus, the usual banter and teasing subdued for now. 

He takes his seat next to Jérôme who already has his headphones on and pulls out his phone, smiling when he sees the message from Leon. It’s a picture of Lotte wearing one of his jerseys, sitting in front of a TV, the red smears on the screen just barely visible in the background. Mario pulls up a new message, typing quickly. 

_better view than last time?_

It takes Leon barely a minute to answer. 

_Excellent. Way better view, 10/10, would recommend. Bf looked hot in life-size version as well._

Mario bites down on his bottom lip, hoping the dim lighting will obscure his stupidly delighted smile somewhat. He’s not sure he’s ever going to get used to this, the easy way Leon claims him as part of his life with that word. At least Jérôme isn’t paying any attention to him, busy staring at his own phone and Mario is glad for their seating once again. If it was David or Thiago next to him, he wouldn’t have a minute of peace right now. Mario isn’t sure why, but for now he’s still not ready to share what’s between him and Leon with anyone, not even Ann. Eventually he won’t be able to keep it from coming up, but for now it’s still their little secret, each message on the long drive back to Munich carrying the warmth that comes from that shared intimacy like tiny sparks. 

The Supercup Final takes place in Prague three days later and it’s a game to remember as they go into overtime, Chelsea giving it their all as they try and hold out against Bayern’s offensive onslaught. Mario comes on after about an hour, happy to soak in the charged atmosphere in the stadium, their fans’ screams and the opposing team’s whistles. It happens in the 85th minute. Ramires comes in from the side just as Mario’s making contact with the ball and he goes down hard, the pain in his right ankle fiery and bright as he lies on the pitch while Ramires gets sent off.

Müller-Wohlfahrt is there in a flash and after some gradual testing of the ankle, Mario limps onto the field again, too determined to let himself be sidelined by his own body again. Overtime feels like an eternity as he ignores the throbbing in his ankle, biting down on the pain and fuelling the attacking of their offense as best as he can, almost scoring towards the end. They go to penalties and when Pep shoots him a questioning look, Mario has to decline, the pain in his ankle too resolute to be ignored. They win, every single one of their penalties finding its mark and Mario has to bite down on his tongue not to let his disappointment show when the med staff carts him off to the catacombs while the others jump around the pitch and run over to celebrate with the fans. 

David comes to sit with him after a while, making sympathetic noises as he takes a look at Mario’s swollen ankle. Nothing too bad, the doctors assure Mario, but they still want him checked out in Munich once they get back. He sits through the banquet with as much grace as he can manage, but the others must have caught on to his misery, because the party finds its way to Mario’s hotel room afterwards, David, Jérôme, Toni, Thomas, Manu, Basti and Franck making room for themselves on his bed and the two arm chairs, bringing beer and no small amount of cheer with them. 

It’s not until two hours later that the gathering disperses, Manu leaving a bottle for Mario and assuring him earnestly (and somewhat drunkenly) that beer is the best remedy for any ailing. Mario feels considerably better, but that night in Prague is still a restless one for him. He’s hazy from the painkillers and yet unable to fall asleep with his foot awkwardly propped up with some pillows. 

They get back to Munich in the afternoon of the following day and Mario gets taken directly from the airport to the hospital, enduring the myriad of tests he’s far too familiar with already. Three hours later his ankle is in a cast and the diagnosis has gone from ‘not too bad’ to ‘out for one month at least’. There’s a tear in the capsule of his ankle’s ligament and Mario is too weary to listen too closely when the doctor explains what exactly that means. He only knows that after only three games for his new club, he’s going to be doing physical therapy for the foreseeable future once again. 

He snaps a picture of the cast while still in one of the examining rooms, sending a mass text with a quick cheery message attached that is supposed to let everyone know he’s fine. The condolences kick in almost immediately, his mother worried and his brothers pissed on Mario’s behalf. It’s so tiringly familiar that he’s tempted to switch off his phone, when Leon’s message arrives. 

_Need a lift?_

Mario bites his lip, staring at the words. He didn’t even consider asking Leon to pick him up, assuming that either someone from the med staff would drive him home, or that he’d take a cab. Looking at Leon’s message, suddenly none of that seems appealing. Mario types _please_ and the name of the hospital before he can reconsider. 

Leon is waiting for him in the lobby when he hobbles out of the elevator, not yet at ease with the crutches they gave him. Seeing him standing there with his tousled dark curls and the glasses he always wears when he drives causes something warm and hopeful blossom in Mario’s chest and he makes his way over as quick as he can manage, accepting the brief hug and handing his stuff over for Leon to carry. Because he has someone to do that for him now, as foreign as that thought still is to him. 

Only when they’ve made it to the car does Leon close the distance to kiss him, safe in the knowledge that the tinted windows will make it impossible for anyone to observe them. Mario gives him a smile when he pulls back and Leon returns it, eyes warm but concerned as he looks at Mario. “I’m really sorry, Mar. This sucks. Did they say how long it would be?”

Mario shrugs, trying to make it casual. “A month probably.” 

“Damn,” Leon sighs. “Are you doing okay?” 

Mario considers this and smiles. An hour ago the answer to that question would have been a very different one. “You know what? I think I’m alright. Let’s go home.” 

*

There’s another surprise waiting for him at home and Mario is glad that Leon is still trying to find a parking spot and told him to go ahead and sit down. Because Ann steps out of the living room as soon as he unlocks the front door, eyes as worried as Leon’s were earlier. Mario blinks when he spots her, dropping one of his crutches when she envelops him in a tight hug and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“What are you doing here?” he manages, one arm wrapped around her back to return her embrace as much as to stay upright. 

“Looking after you, dumbass,” she replies, voice suspiciously soft. “How are you?” 

Mario buries his face in her soft hair, strangely comforted by the scent of her almond shampoo. “Not looking for any bridges to jump off of yet.”

“That’s not funny,” she says, snorting in spite of her words. She presses another kiss to his cheek before pulling back. “No, really, what did the doctors- well, hello.” 

Ann isn’t looking at him anymore and Mario suddenly remembers Leon, turning to see him standing in the entryway, still holding the car keys. “Right,” Mario says. “Leon, this is-“

“Ann-Kathrin,” Ann interrupts him, stepping forward to offer her hand to Leon with a cat-like smile. “Mario’s girlfriend.” 

“Leon,” Leon says, shaking her hand without the slightest hint that she unsettled him. “Mario’s boyfriend.” 

Ann doesn’t get thrown off her game a lot and even now she recovers beautifully. “ _Really_ ,” she says, taking Leon’s elbow like he’s a gentleman caller leading her to her seat at a dinner party. “Well, this just got very interesting indeed. How about we sit down and you tell me more about yourself Leon.”

Mario knows there’s no point trying to derail Ann when she as her mind set on something and so he leaves them to it, going to take a long shower to get rid of the plane and hospital smell. To Ann’s credit, Leon still looks pretty unperturbed when Mario re-enters the living room, the two of them busy commiserating about their workloads at university. Since Mario has absolutely nothing to add to that discussion, he goes into the kitchen to make himself a smoothie and takes it to the sofa, propping his ankle up with a grimace. 

“What’s that?” 

Mario didn’t notice them halting their conversation and it takes him a second to figure out what Ann’s pointing at. Once he does, he sighs, knowing what he’s in for. “Strawberry-kiwi-mango. And I don’t want to hear one word. I’m injured.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ann remarks, unconcerned. “Pick a flavor for God’s sake.”

“I am,” Mario scowls. “It’s called leave-me-and-my-smoothie-choices-the-hell-alone, Brömmel.”

“Catchy,” Leon says drily, starting to get up. “Anyway, I should get going. I left Lotte with my roommates and since you have company now, I should probably go take them off their hands now. Ann,” he bends down to press a swift kiss to her cheek, which she gracefully accepts. “It’s been a pleasure.” 

He steps over to Mario and slips a hand underneath his chin, tilting his head up to press a long, lingering kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

Mario nods, feeling Ann’s eyes on them as Leon gives him another kiss before grabbing his jacket. The sound of the front door falling shut almost makes him wince and sure enough, Ann is giving him her most unimpressed look, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, her whole posture demanding an explanation. 

“I didn’t lie,” Mario tries. “I just…omitted certain parts of the story.” 

“You mean the part where he calls himself your boyfriend and you don’t so much as blink?” Ann asks, her piercing as she looks at him. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” 

Mario barely keeps from snapping at her, the urge to remind Ann that _she_ was the one who told him to go through with this already on the tip of his tongue. He restrains himself, forcing his voice to be calm. “I don’t know. But I like him.” 

Ann looks at him then and whatever she sees apparently makes her decide not to press the matter further. “I like him, too, you know. He seems like a good guy.”

“He is.” Mario tries not to show how much of a relief her words are. He’s not sure he would have been able to deal with another Marco situation. Defusing the tension between those two was a nightmare each and every time and they didn’t even see each other that often. Thinking of Marco never fails to make his chest tighten almost imperceptibly these days and Mario drains his smoothie to hide the fall of his smile. 

They pass the rest of the evening pleasantly enough after that, Ann demanding details on Leon and their dates so far, which Mario willingly provides. He only hesitates when the conversation inevitably turns to Leon’s prowess in other areas, realizing he’ll have to lie. The thought makes him pause, but not for long. If he admits that his first time with Leon was less than stellar, Ann would only use it as an opportunity to voice her doubts about this whole thing again. And Mario just can’t deal with that right now. 

So he lies. It’s not the worst lie he’s ever told by far and yet it’s one that weighs on him heavily afterwards, long after Ann retires to the guest bedroom. Only when he’s turning restlessly in bed a while later does he finally realize why. Telling that lie made him feel lonely, the urge to share the experience and maybe get some advice going up in smoke when he chose not to involve Ann. 

All of a sudden he misses Marco so much it hurts, the low throb of yearning and pain he’s constantly aware of flaring brightly, making it impossible not to get up and dig the hoodie out of the bottom of his closet, taking it back into bed with him. It’s not that he would have shared this with Marco, even if they were still talking. That would have been too awkward by far. But he misses having that person to tell every single one of his secrets to, without fear of being judged or laughed at. He misses his best friend. 

Yet the possibility of simply contacting Marco has never seemed further away. What would Mario even say at this point? Sorry I ignored you for two months, let’s be friends again? The truth is he missed his window of opportunity to make this new situation normal between them right after he moved. He thinks it still could have been alright, if he hadn’t been too much of a coward back then, too proud to tell Marco that the situation at his new club wasn’t all sunshine and roses. 

And now that window has closed. Even without Leon in the picture, Mario isn’t blind. He sees that Marco is flourishing, the evidence is there every single time he turns on his TV on the weekends to watch his former club’s games. He hears it in the silence between them and though the thought of it hurts, he can’t even blame Marco. Mario tried to move on after all. Quite literally, in fact. How could he begrudge his best friend doing the same?

He needs to stop doing this, Mario knows, even as he wraps himself into the hoodie and crawls back beneath the sheets. But for now it’s still the one thing that calms him enough to let him fall asleep, even the pain in his ankle dulled and far off for now. 

*

“Honey, I’m home!” 

Mario limps out of the kitchen, his mouth actually falling open when he catches sight of his brother, laden with a huge backpack and a duffel bag at his feet, standing in the hallway jangling his keys. Fabian lifts him off his feet when they hug and Mario laughs, waiting until he can feel solid ground again before punching him in the shoulder. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t going to make it until Saturday!” 

Fabian shrugs. “Wanted to see my little brother. And Athens is a drag this time of the year anyway.” 

“Uh huh,” Mario snorts. “Well, come on in. I’d offer to carry something, but-“ he gestures grandly towards his cast and Fabian raises an eyebrow. 

“How often are you going to be using that one?” 

“I’m offended,” Mario says, shaking his head. “By the way, the doctors said no doing the dishes until I’m better, or my foot might fall off.”

He quickly ducks back into the kitchen, before his brother’s beanie can hit him in the head, still grinning. He’s missed Fabian. The two of them have been living apart for so long that it’s almost weird to think that his big brother will be around all the time from now on, but it’s the good kind of weird, the kind that makes you want to smile at the most random times when you think about it. Ever since Fabian moved away to live near Munich four years ago, Mario has seen so little of his brother, most of their conversations confined to text messages and holidays. 

Their closeness, fostered by the years growing up and playing football together, hasn’t diminished, but it’s different, not being together all the time. They used to do everything together when they were kids, Mario hanging onto his big brother all the time, especially after they moved to Dortmund. Everything was so new there and Mario clung to the little bit of familiarity he had, following his brother around like a stray puppy. Fabian let him, never showing any annoyance that his younger brother used him as his security blanket, always defending Mario when the older boys made fun of him. 

Mario got his own friends over time, but they still saw each other each day and at times played on the same team, Mario’s innate skills catapulting him two years ahead of his actual age-group. Living together again is something Mario has looked forward to for months, the phone conversations and text messages not even close to having his older brother back in his life again. The two of them were never much for talking anyway, preferring to hang out and actually doing something together, whether it was playing football or watching some mindless movie and throwing popcorn at the screen. 

Seeing Fabian just waltz into his (their, Mario reminds himself) living room and sit down to examine the cast on Mario’s ankle half an hour later with hair that’s still wet from the shower, makes something settle in Mario’s chest that hasn’t been at rest ever since he left Dortmund. He isn’t made for living on his own. Even though he’s glad not to be living with his parents anymore, Mario missed having someone there to talk to if he wanted, that warm feeling an empty flat just couldn’t provide, no matter how nice it was. 

“Alright,” Fabian says, scooting closer and slapping his thigh. “Let me see it.” 

Mario complies and shifts his foot to rest in his brother’s lap, Fabian wincing as he takes in the stiff cast. “If I ever saw that asshole on the street,” he mutters and Mario has to stifle a grin, because this is very much like third grade again. 

“I did tell him I’d get my big brother, if he didn’t leave me alone,” he offers cheekily and Fabian swats at his head, looking mildly reassured. 

“Shut up. You know what I mean. What kind of asshole tackles someone in a game this unimportant?” 

“Hey,” Mario says, frowning at him. “I’m a Supercup winner now, have some respect.” 

“Of course,” Fabian says drily. “I’m sure you can list it right after your fifth grade spelling bee merit badge on your CV.” 

“You’re just jealous,” Mario says without thinking and winces right after, regretting the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. 

It’s not exactly a sore point between them, but Mario doesn’t like to call attention to the different paths their professional football careers took, too grateful that Fabian never showed any envy at his little brother’s success. His brother had always been happy about Mario’s accomplishments, even when he got called to the professionals by Borussia. Of course Fabian was already playing for Unterhachingen by then, but Mario knows his brother hoped for more, they both had. When they were younger, they spun tales of playing on the same team and for the National Team, taking the Bundesliga by storm together. The Götze brothers. It didn’t work out that way and Mario wonders whether Fabian carries some of the same bitterness Felix shows from time to time, complaining about his coaches at BVB youth never leaving out an opportunity to talk about his gifted older brother.

A quick glance at his brother reveals that Fabian looks amused rather than hurt and Mario breathes a silent sigh of relief, allowing his brother to ruffle his hair. “Of that tin cup? Not in this life, man. Alright, now get me a pen so I can sign this damn thing, because this is just sad.” He points at the two lone signatures near the top, Ann’s neat script and Leon’s loopy scrawl. “Haven’t you made any friends on your new team, or what?” 

Mario scowls and tosses the pen he dug out of his hoodie pocket at Fabian’s head. “I haven’t even been to Säbener since I got it.”

Fabian hums while he scribbles his name down, cocking his head to read the other signatures when he’s done. “Who is Leon?” 

*

“This is ridiculous.”

“Shhh.” 

“Don’t shush me. The only way he could have heard that was if he actually developed sonar hearing capabilities. Does your brother have sonar hearing capabilities?”

“Shut up.”

“I thought so.” 

Mario sighs. Beneath him, Leon sighs as well. They’re naked and in bed and ten minutes ago they were well on their way to engaging in some excellent foreplay, but right now they’re both lying still and straining to listen to any noises coming from the hallway that would indicate Fabian went to his room. There is, Mario thinks a bit ruefully, one drawback to Fabian moving in and he feels pretty silly for only realizing it after they almost got caught making out in the kitchen by his brother. 

Fabian has only lived with him for a little more than a week and already they had too many close encounters for Mario to be comfortable with. His brother accepted Leon’s presence in Mario’s life easily enough, unperturbed that he was suddenly hanging out with his primary school friend again. But explaining why Leon is sleeping over more often than not – so often he actually has his own separate sheets and toothbrush by now – is a different matter entirely and so far Mario failed at coming up with something reasonable his brother might buy.

“You should tell him.” 

With a groan Mario rolls off Leon, pulling the sheets up to cover himself. They’re definitely not having sex tonight. “It’s not that easy.” 

“He’ll find out eventually,” Leon points out, calmly, like he’s done about a dozen times in the last few days. “We can’t keep this up, he _lives_ with you. Do you really want him to find out by seeing us have sex on the kitchen table?”

Mario snorts, despite the fact that his stomach lurches at the mere thought of telling Fabian. “We’ve never had sex on the kitchen table.” 

Leon just looks at him, patient, but with a hint of exasperation. “Mar.” 

“Can’t we just sleep at your place from now on?” Mario knows the answer and so does Leon. 

“Because it will be easier to hide our relationship from my three roommates? Be serious.” 

“I could buy you a new apartment,” Mario suggests, only half joking. 

Leon sighs and presses a kiss to his temple before getting up, starting to gather his clothes from the ground. “Tell him. It might not be as bad as you think.” 

*

“He’s right.” 

Mario groans and drops back onto the bed, rubbing at his forehead. “You have to stop agreeing with everything he says, it’s getting annoying.” 

“Okay,” Ann says peaceably. “But he’s still right. You do need to tell Fabian.” 

“I know,” Mario mutters, picking at the frayed cuffs of his jeans, discarded earlier. “But-“ 

“Yeah,” Ann says quietly. “I know.”

And unlike Leon, she actually does understand. Mario told her too much about his family and the secret Mario’s been keeping from them for so long not to realize why this is so hard for him. The thought of admitting to that lie, the one that has been his constant companion ever since he first realized he was different, makes his chest close up and his heart start racing in panic even now. Actually talking to Fabian seems like a distant possibility in light of that. 

“He’ll be okay with it,” Ann says and Mario is glad she can’t see him right then, because his scoff would definitely earn him a slap to the head. 

He clutches the phone tighter. “You don’t know that. Not even I know that and he’s my brother.” 

He doesn’t, is the thing. Sure, Fabian never really showed any indication that he has anything against gay people, but then again Mario always avoided the subject like the plague, so how could he know really? It’s like rolling dice, except instead of double-twos, Mario is facing the possibility that his brother might never talk to him again. It’s unlikely, but it still exists. Along with a variety of other terrible outcomes, like Fabian telling his parents, or being so disappointed about Mario’s dishonesty that he wants to move out again. There’s simply no way of knowing until he goes through with it and the uncertainty is almost worse, spinning each scenario into its worst possible outcome. 

Mario wishes Marco were here. It’s nothing new, since he almost always wishes that, but right then he longs for Marco with a fierceness that makes his teeth ache. Not even Marco and the way they were in the months before his transfer became public. Just his best friend, the one person he could always talk to about anything, even the screwed up mess that is his relationship with his family. Mario longs to be able to pick up the phone and call Marco more than anything. To simply hear his best friend’s voice again and feel the easy reassurance it always brought to Mario. 

“Mario?”

“Yeah,” he says, forcing himself back to the here and now. “I’m here.” 

“I could talk to him,” she says hesitantly. “If you don’t think you-“

“No,” he interrupts her, touched by the offer. Fabian and she took an immediate shine to each other when he introduced them back in January, but that doesn’t mean he can pawn this off onto Ann. “I think I have to do this on my own.” 

“You’re never on your own, Mario.” Ann’s voice is matter of fact and yet kind and Mario has to swallow hard against the lump in his throat all of a sudden. 

“How did I get lucky enough to have you as my girlfriend?” 

“You have a great manager,” she says drily. “But seriously. You know you can call me anytime, yeah? I’m just an irresponsibly fast Autobahn drive away.” 

“I know.” Mario runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “How is your Sex God?” 

“I dumped him,” she says cheerfully. “On to bigger and better things. Your hot, tall boyfriend kind of opened my eyes to what’s out there.”

“Maybe try for one that isn’t gay this time.” 

“Don’t worry, darling. You’ll always be my favorite.”

*

Waiting for the right moment to talk to Fabian is even harder than Mario imagined it to be and he chickens out more than half a dozen times, opening his mouth and ending up asking his brother to pass the remote or something equally innocuous. In the end it’s a spur of the moment decision, Fabian overhearing him talk to Leon on the phone and asking about his plans for the night. Mario hesitates, his cell still in hand, fighting against the urge to make some sort of excuse and trying not to think of what his words might unleash. 

“Leon’s taking me out for dinner.” 

Fabian gives him a curious glance, lowering the magazine he’s holding. “Sounds romantic.” 

His brother’s tone is teasing and Mario’s heart is beating so fast it feels like it might jump out of his chest at any moment. “Yeah.” 

Fabian snorts. “You do realize this sounds like you’re dating him, right?” 

Forcing himself to meet his brother’s eyes, Mario nods. “I am.” 

Fabian starts to grin, opening his magazine again. “Nice try.” 

“It’s not a joke,” Mario says softly and Fabian frowns at him, clearly trying to decipher whether he’s serious or not. Whatever he sees on Mario’s face makes him drop the magazine and sit up, the disbelief in his expression evident. Holding his brother’s gaze is one of the hardest things Mario ever has done and he only barely manages, the urge to laugh it off and disappear into his room making his fingers twitch. 

“You-“ Fabian is obviously at a loss for words, shaking his head as he looks at Mario. “You’re serious? You…and him? You’re like-“ 

Mario nods, biting down onto his tongue until he tastes blood. Across from him, Fabian is still shaking his head and now an edge has crept into the expression of disbelief in his features, a hard line to his jaw that makes Mario’s stomach clench. “I can’t believe this. What about Ann?” 

That’s so far from what Mario expected that he’s actually thrown for a second. “Ann?” 

“Yes, Mario, _Ann_ ,” Fabian says and now he sounds _furious_. “Remember your girlfriend?” 

“Oh,” Mario says, finally catching on. “She’s…I mean, we’re not actually- I’m gay.”

“Yes, I fucking heard you the first time, what does that-“ 

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Mario snaps and the anxiety makes his tone sharper than he wants it to be. “Volker found her for me. Ann knows, alright? I’m not cheating on her, we’re not really a couple. So you can stop freaking out about it, alright?”

Fabian is staring at him, his jaw still tight. “Oh, I can just stop freaking out, is that it? You tell me that the woman you told me was your girlfriend, no, the woman you told _all of us_ was your girlfriend is just what, a cover up? That you brought her over to parade around for Sunday dinner, while you’re actually dating some dude? What the hell, Mario? Why would you lie to us?”

“I wasn’t dating Leon back then, I only met him when I moved here,” Mario defends himself, though it sounds weak even to his own ears. 

“But she wasn’t your girlfriend then either, was she?” Fabian demands and when Mario just shakes his head, so does his brother. 

“I can’t believe this. How long have you known?” 

_Since you told me kissing boys was weird. Since your friend made fun of me. Since that day at the park and every single day ever since._

“Always.” It’s close enough to the truth. 

“And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” Fabian is looking at Mario like he’s never seen him before and it makes his skin crawl, the feeling of being trapped in one of his nightmares closing in on him. 

“I didn’t know how.” It comes out as a whisper and Mario hates how pathetically wretched he sounds, like a child lost in the dark of the woods. 

“Jesus, Mario.” Fabian shakes his head. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

Mario can’t bear to look at the disappointment on his brother’s face anymore and stares at his hands instead, tugging on a thread that’s coming loose from one of his sleeves. He hears his brother get up, but keeps his eyes on that thread, wrapping it around the tip of his finger so tightly it cuts into his skin. The sound of the front door slamming makes him flinch and when Mario looks up, the apartment is silent once more, wavering around him as he finally allows himself to cry.

*

That night is awful. Eventually Mario texts Leon to call off their date, which only results in Leon standing on his doorstep half an hour later, wrapping him into his arms as soon as he opens the door. While Mario appreciates the gesture, right then he wishes he could close the door in Leon’s face without making it look like the dismissal it is. He has no energy or will to pull himself together and yet that’s what he does, allowing his boyfriend to console him and nodding along with the reassurances Leon utters. 

He’s probably being too harsh. Leon is trying his best to make him feel better, Mario knows that. It’s just that his boyfriend can’t seem to comprehend that Mario doesn’t want to be consoled. Fabian was right after all. He lied to his brother and his family. He made it even worse by involving Ann. His brother has every right to be mad at Mario. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less. 

After Leon leaves, regretfully admitting that he has an exam to study for, Mario tries calling Ann, but she doesn’t pick up. Probably out with the bigger and better things she mentioned. He goes to bed after a while, the glare of the TV making his eyes water and head ache. His bed feels cold and as he shivers beneath the sheets waiting for his body to warm them, Mario suddenly wishes Leon did stay, if only for the comfort another body to sleep next to provides. When his mind slips down that traitorous path again to remind him that it’s not precisely Leon’s warmth he longs for, Mario pulls one of the pillows over his head, like he can stop his mind from wandering that way. 

The next morning serves to remind him that not being back at Säbener yet has its advantages. The cast has been of for a couple of days now, but he still has a brace and won’t start physical therapy until tomorrow. Which means that he can sit on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie and watch all three parts of _Winnetou_ without anyone bothering him about it. When he was little and got sick, his mother would always turn on these movies for him, wrap him in a blanket in front of the TV and have him sweat out his fever while watching Old Shatterhand and Winnetou catch bad guys and become blood brothers. The story and dialogue is comforting, so familiar he can mouth the lines along if he wants. And it most definitely helps to keep the dark panic at bay that’s threatening to pull him under whenever he thinks about Fabian not having returned yet. 

It’s late in the afternoon when he hears the key in the front door and Mario stiffens, not taking his eyes away from the screen even as Fabian’s footfalls slow and come to a halt somewhere behind him. When his brother moves to sit next to him, Mario can’t help but glance over though and what he sees nearly stops him in his tracks. Fabian looks awful. His hair is tousled and his chin covered in heavy stubble that Mario used to envy him for when they were teenagers. He looks like he barely slept and did all of it in the clothes he wore when he left yesterday. 

“Winnetou, huh? You used to watch that whenever you were feeling down as a kid.” 

Mario startles when Fabian begins to speak and covers it up by crossing his arms, giving a noncommittal shrug. Fabian sighs, but there’s no annoyance in it, only weariness. “I’m not going to win any brother-of-the-year awards, am I.” 

He reaches out and puts a hand on Mario’s arm until he looks at him. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I was a jerk yesterday.” 

Fabian’s never been good at apologizing. For one thing, he didn’t have to do it very often. Between the three of them Felix was definitely the one to bring the drama, while Mario and Fabian were much more laid back. Maybe that’s why Fabian sounding so regretful makes Mario’s stomach twist into knots, the urge to reassure his brother immediate. “You were right though. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“I wasn’t right,” Fabian says with a grimace. “If anything, I proved your point. You’re my little brother. You should be able to tell me anything. I know things have changed since I moved out. But that didn’t. I hate that you felt like you couldn’t come to me with this.”

Mario looks at Fabian in surprise. It’s the first time his brother let on their separation bothered him as much as it had Mario. “Thanks.” he says softly. “I’m sorry, too. For not telling you earlier.” 

“You know I’m okay with it, yeah?” Fabians says awkwardly, his grip on Mario’s arm becoming tighter. “That I love you no matter what?” 

Mario swallows against the lump in his throat, hating the prick of tears his brother’s words bring to his eyes. He so does _not_ want to cry right now. They don’t really do tears around each other, never have. Knowing his voice will give him away if he tries to say anything, Mario nods, blinking rapidly to get rid of the stupid sheen of water. 

The tug on his arm is unexpected and Mario finds himself in his brother’s arms before he quite realizes what’s happening, Fabian pulling him close in a way he hasn’t done in years. Mario hugs him back just as tightly, the relief at the realization that his confession didn’t destroy the trust between them flooding through him like water from a dam unleashed. 

They let go only reluctantly and Fabian looks away while Mario blows his nose, allowing him to pretend that they don’t both know why there’s a wet patch on Fabian’s sweater now. His brother clicks his fingers and points towards the screen, where Winnetou is lying dying in Old Shatterhand’s arms. “You know. Now that I think of it, there were some hints.” 

Mario grabs the pillow next to him and whacks his brother with it without missing a beat. “Shut up.” 

Fabian’s eyes gleam dangerously. “Huge mistake, little brother. You can’t run with that foot.” 

Before Mario can contemplate that, Fabian has tackled him sideways, tickling him in all the worst spots that years of horrible experimenting brought forth. Mario is crying uncle only seconds in, but Fabian doesn’t let up until nearly a minute later, when Mario’s face feels like it’s going to burst from the heat of his flush and he’s in the very immediate danger of peeing himself with laughter.

“I hate you,” Mario gasps, trying to regain his breath and ducking away when Fabian reaches over to ruffle his hair. It’s all so normal, like the hundreds of times they did this exact same thing in their parents’ living room and Mario has never been happier about it. 

“Sure you do,” Fabian chuckles, knocking his shoulder into Mario’s before he grows serious again. “Mario? You know you’re not alone, right? That you can talk to me about anything?” 

There’s something odd about the words and how they sound coming from Fabian’s mouth and it takes Mario only seconds to realize why. “Ann talked to you, didn’t she?”

“What?” Fabian tries to put on a confused expression, but gives it up quickly when Mario glares at him. “Okay, fine. I went to talk to her yesterday. Just wanted to make sure, she wasn’t, you know.” 

“Secretly devastated about me being gay?” Mario asks drily and Fabian looks rueful. 

“Something like that.”

“What did she say?” Mario grins, able to imagine the scene only too well.

Fabian grimaces. “It wasn’t so much what she said, but what she yelled. I think the words ‘clueless idiot’ were in there somewhere.” 

“She does have a way with words,” Mario agrees fondly.

“She really put me in my place,” Fabian mutters, a tinge of admiration in his voice. “She loves you a lot, you know?” 

“I do.” Ann has never once made Mario doubt her affection for him, even when she mostly expressed it in sarcastic comments. 

“It’s so like you,” Fabian says fondly. “Gay and still snatching up the hottest girl in town.” 

“I have a gift,” Mario nods and they both contemplate that for a while. 

“So,” Fabian says eventually, nudging Mario’s knee with his own. “When do I get to officially meet my little brother’s boyfriend?”

*

Fabian and Leon get on like a house on fire. It’s actually a little scary Mario thinks, watching his brother attempt to trash his boyfriend on Pro Evolution Soccer, while he and Ann are curled up in the armchair to the side. He’s not sure whether Fabian actually enjoys Leon’s company that much, or whether he’s trying really hard to make up for his initial reaction to Mario’s news, but the result is the same. 

“Suck on that, Götze!” Leon crows, throwing down the controller and raising both of his arms into a ridiculous victor pose. “Admit you’re my bitch.” 

Fabian scowls. “Keep dreaming, Wagner. Re-match. I’m going to own your ass.” 

“Do they even hear themselves?” Ann whispers to Mario, who is trying to hide his mirth by tucking his face into her hair. Neither Leon nor Fabian seem to have noticed that their trash talk has continuously become more sexual in the last hour and Mario for one, would really like to see where it’s going to take them without interrupting. 

He relaxes against Ann and contemplates how nice this is, the four of them hanging out together. It’s been a regular occurrence in the last week, Fabian insisting on Mario inviting Leon over so they can spend time together. Ann has a week off after her exams and she’s enjoying them in their guest room, sick of the entire city of Düsseldorf, or so she claims. Mario can’t help but notice that she and Fabian have been spending a lot of time together, hanging back whenever Leon and Mario split off for some alone time. 

“How’s PT going?” Ann’s tone is casual and she’s still watching the guys, but Mario knows better than to assume her attention might be divided because of that. So he does his best to mimic her casualty, giving an easy shrug. “Good so far. They say I can start training in a few days.” 

It’s about time. His cast has been off for a while now and the original injury was three weeks ago. Mario is itching to get back into the game. Having to watch his teammates play without him is its own brand of torture, but what really scares him is the feeling of déjà vu, the medical staff at Bayern already way too familiar with him for Mario’s comfort. He’s spent most of the last six months working towards being able to play again and the missed opportunities grate on his nerves, the team starting to form under Guardiola’s leadership without any possibility for Mario to be part of the process.

Ann is eying him and Mario does his best to keep his expression blank, allowing none of his feelings to show on his face. Admitting to some of his fears would make them more real somehow and Mario has no desire to do that. Thankfully, Leon cheers loudly at that moment and distracts Ann from her scrutiny of Mario.

“Say it,” Leon demands, pointing at Fabian in victory. “Say you’re my bitch.” 

Fabian groans and buries his face in his hands, mumbling something incoherent. Next to Mario, Ann laughs. “What was that, Fabi?” 

While Mario is still marveling that anyone is allowed to call his older brother by that hated nickname, Fabian reluctantly admits defeat. “I’m your bitch. And you’re the worst winner in the entire world, Wagner.”

“No, that’s Mario actually,” Leon says drily, laughing when Mario throws a pillow at him. “It’s true though. I think you’re genetically opposed to losing, you’re just wired against it.” 

“Explains why we always had to let him win at Monopoly,” Fabian grins and Mario shoots him a glare. “Please. You lose at Monopoly because after twenty-four years on this Earth you still haven’t realized that putting everything on Park Avenue is not a viable strategy.”

“Boys,” Ann interrupts, wisely predicting the scrabble that is about to take place. “Didn’t we want to watch a movie? What happened to that plan?”

“Fabian found Pro Evo instead of the movie he was looking for,” Mario snorts. “And because he has the attention span of a hamster, he forgot all about it.”

“I do not-“

“Right.” Ann gets up briskly, mustering the DVDs on the shelf for a few moments, before picking one. “Fabian, go make popcorn.” 

Mario raises his eyebrows, watching his brother open his mouth in protest and then closing it again when Ann gives him a threatening glance, getting up and trotting off towards the kitchen, not without swiping at Mario’s head in passing. Once Fabian has disappeared, he gets up as well and ambles over to Leon, who raises an arm for Mario to slide beneath as he drops into the spot next to him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Mario grins, pressing a kiss to Leon’s mouth. “Nice job kicking his ass, by the way.” 

“I aim to please,” Leon chuckles, before kissing Mario again. 

“Gross,” Fabian comments mildly when he wanders back into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and they’re still kissing. “Get off my little brother, man.”

Leon pays no attention to him as he continues to give Mario a thorough kiss, separating the two of them with a wet smack Mario is pretty sure he only adds for Fabian’s benefit. They stay tucked against each other while the movie plays and Mario thinks again of how nice this is, to have someone to stay close to even when hanging out in a group. Someone’s shoulder to stifle his laughter against and someone to bury closer to when the disgusting scene with the flesh-eating bugs comes up, even though Leon chuckles softly when he does. “Really? Even with the bad CGI?”

“Childhood trauma,” Mario mutters, peeking over Leon’s shoulder to see whether they’ve come to the good part with the mummy yet. On the other end of the couch Ann has placed her feet in Fabian’s lap and Mario observes them for a moment, Leon’s body warm against his side.

_I could get used to this_. 

*

The end of September comes around, the days getting shorter and the late summer warmth fading as a cool breeze picks up instead, stirring the falling leaves Lotte loves to pounce on during their walks in the English Garden. Mario spends more time than ever at Säbener, the blissfulness of the abundance of free time in past month coming to an end as he prepares for his second comeback. 

It’s not hard to motivate himself, not with the team starting to click and Guardiola’s system starting to gain traction. Mario forces himself to watch every single game and to analyze it, though it’s hard to see the ease with which David, Thomas and of course Arjen and Franck implement their coach’s tactics. It adds to the thread of anxiety that keeps his nerves strung tight these days, fuels the ferocity with which he undergoes training. 

Thiago is finally back with them as well, going through the same motions Mario did as he rejoins team training. Mario finds him afterwards one day, sitting on the bench in the locker room with his face buried in his hands. For a moment Mario wonders whether he should back away silently, but in the end Thiago cuts too piteous a figure and he sits down next to him, bumping their shoulders together on purpose in order to get his teammate’s attention. 

Thiago’s voice is hoarse when he speaks, his accent even thicker than usual. “I feel like…that guy. The guy rolling the stone up the mountain over and over again and it keeps tumbling down? So he just has to start from scratch again.” 

“Sisyphus?” Mario asks with a frown and Thiago nods, his entire face lined with unhappiness. “I’m so fucking tired of my own body letting me down. Do you ever get like that?”

Mario thinks of the nights he spends lying awake, the dormant fear that Nuri’s words instilled in him way back when. _Do you want to sit on the bench and watch Robben and Ribéry play?_ None of his own fears would serve to reassure Thiago though. 

“Let it go,” he says instead. “There’s nothing you can do about it, so just let it go. Keep fighting, keep working. The rest of it is going to fall into place.” 

At least for Thiago, he thinks and hates himself for the bitterness he feels. It’s hardly Thiago’s fault their coach has taken such a shine to him after all. Mario’s envy is petty, he knows. He had years of being the teacher’s pet at BVB. And he came here knowing it wouldn’t be the same. That doesn’t keep him from missing Kloppo sometimes, the teasing of his former teammates when their coach didn’t entirely keep his soft spot for Mario from showing. 

“You’re amazing.” 

Surprised, Mario looks at Thiago, who smiles at him, some of the weariness gone from his face. “You stay so positive, no matter what happens.”

Mario, thinking of all the doubts and fears he keeps to himself, only manages a wan smile. “Yeah, well.”

“Thank you,” Thiago says, grabbing his hand and pulling it against his chest in an oddly intimate gesture that charms Mario more than he wants to admit. “How’s your boyfriend?”

Mario blinks at the change of topic, but regroups quickly enough. He only managed to keep Leon and his relationship secret for so long and David had punched him in the shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise when he realized Mario hadn’t told them right away, claiming Mario deserved it for being, as he put it, ‘a gossip hog’.

“He’s good. Bit disappointed I’m so busy right now, but. Good.” 

That’s putting it mildly. Leon voiced his disappointment over Mario’s full schedule more than once in the last few days, the two of them barely managing to see each other in between training and Leon’s lectures and clinic hours. Trying to make more of an effort, Mario promised to come along and meet Leon’s friends on a night out this weekend, painfully aware that their relationship has been awfully one-sided in getting to know one another’s lives. 

Thiago raises his eyebrows when Mario mentions it to him. “Will you guys tell them you’re..?”

“God, no.” Mario shakes his head. “As far as they know, I’m just an old school friend.” 

An uncomfortable, but necessary lie. The number of people who know about him is already too high for Mario’s taste and adding complete strangers to the list is out of the question, which thankfully Leon is completely understanding about. That doesn’t exactly help to ease the guilt Mario feels whenever he thinks too much about the compromises Leon has to make for the sake of their relationship, though his boyfriend has never complained so far. Mario just has to hope the same will hold true after they spend a whole night lying to Leon’s friends. 

*

They meet at a hole-in-the-wall pub that’s so crammed Mario has honest to God concerns about fire safety, but Leon just laughs and shoulders them a way through the crowd, leading them to a booth that’s filled with people, who greet them with excited cheers. Mario gets introduced to all of them and barely manages to remember half their names, which makes him feel like a tool and very happy about the beer being shoved into his hand. At least this way he has something to hold onto.

About ten minutes in Leon gets dragged away towards the tiny stage off towards the right and Mario finds out his boyfriend plays guitar in a folk band. Correction. In a _terrible_ folk band. They’re plain awful. Their singer, a curly-haired, round-faced girl named Lena seems to be constantly off-pitch while the guitars struggle to keep up with one other. No one but Mario appears to be bothered, the entire pub swaying and singing along to a song Mario is pretty sure might be a bastardized version of Mumford and Sons’s _Lover of the Light_. 

The few remaining people of Leon’s group in their booth are just as enthused, clapping and cheering wildly when the ‘band’ (and really, Mario uses that term very loosely) makes its way back to them, Leon dropping down next to Mario, smelling of sweat and beer as he leans closer. “What did you think, Mar?” 

Mario raises his head to find that the attention of the group is pointedly fixed on him and opens his mouth, just to close it again. Honestly, what is he going to say? “You…looked like you were having fun,” he finally manages, which is true enough. 

“Nice,” the singer – Lena, Mario reminds himself – says. “I think that might be the best one yet.” 

“Yeah, you didn’t even blink,” one of the guitarists adds cheerfully. “You’d make an excellent diplomat, if the whole football thing doesn’t work out.” 

Mario feels like he’s missed an important bit of information and turns towards Leon, who laughs at the obvious confusion on his face. “We suck,” he declares proudly, taking a huge gulp of his beer. “I mean, we are truly, truly awful. Almost beyond saving.” 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Lena shakes her finger at him. “We’re so awful, we’re edging into artsy territory, which makes us good again.” 

“No, I’m pretty sure you’re just awful,” Mario blurts out, which earns him laughter and cheers from around the table. Lena tips her glass at him and takes a drink as well. 

“It’s become a thing,” Leon explains with a grin. “People enjoy watching us suck. And every time someone new gets introduced to the group, we like to watch them struggle to come up with anything complimentary to say.” 

“Good fun,” the guy next to Mario agrees. “Yours was the best yet, wasn’t it guys?” 

“Passed with flying colors,” Lena agrees and Leon slings an arm around Mario, obviously pleased at the reception he’s received from his friends. 

Mario on the other hand can’t help the spark of resentment he feels towards his boyfriend for dropping him into this situation without warning. Leon knew how nervous Mario was to meet his friends, the least he could have done was give him a heads-up. They pass the rest of the night at the pub and Leon’s friends are nice enough, though Mario has a hard time catching up with their conversation after a while. 

They’re all students and most of them seem to know Leon, because they’re in some sort of campus group together, though Mario can’t figure out what exactly they’re organizing for and against. The conversation drifts wildly, from climate change to new discriminatory policies on campus to the ethics of wearing leather, which everyone seems to agree on is an awful thing to do. Mario, who owns at least three different leather jackets that probably cost more than the wardrobe of everyone gathered around the table combined, wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

There’s nothing overtly wrong with any of it and Leon is obviously enjoying himself, shooting Mario pleased little glances from time to time that speak to how happy he is that he brought him along. But Mario can’t shake the feeling of being the square peg trying to fit himself into a round hole, Leon’s friends’ life experiences and concerns so completely unlike his own. Leon’s happiness more than makes up for it though and when they get home hours later, Mario pushes him up against his bedroom door and sucks his cock until Leon spills onto his tongue, his fingers buried in Mario’s hair and gasping his name. 

*

The following week is crucial as Mario prepares for his comeback in the game on Saturday against Leverkusen and receives the call from the National Team management, telling him he’s in the squad for the International Break next week. It’s great news of course, a testament to his standing that they’d want him back so quickly after an injury and Mario can use all the play time he can get, though he won’t be able to go the distance on a full match yet. 

He throws himself into training with a ferocity that even his teammates notice, Thomas high-fiving him after a particularly well-going six on two match, noting that Mario will be back in form in no time. Guardiola gives him a nod afterwards that has Mario hoping for the game on Saturday and he goes to shower with a skip in his step, ignoring David’s gentle teasing about his reverence toward their coach. 

Thursday is the last night Leon and Mario get to spend together before the away game and since Fabian is gone for once, they make the most of it, rolling around the sheets without fear of what noises might spill beyond the confines of Mario’s bedroom. Afterwards they take the shower Leon still insists on and curl up next to each other, Leon regarding him with such open affection that Mario can’t help but raise an eyebrow. 

“What?” 

“I’ll miss you is all,” Leon says, like admitting that is the easiest thing in the world. “You’ll be gone for more than a week.” 

Mario presses a kiss to his mouth instead of answering, hoping it conveys even a fraction of his feelings on the matter. Judging from Leon’s smile when he pulls back, he’s succeeded at least somewhat. “Are you nervous?”

Mario frowns, though his heart starts beating faster. “About International break? Not really. I’ve done it before.” 

Leon looks at him for a long while, his smile fading a little as something else slips into his expression, something Mario can’t quite define. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” 

“Do what?” Mario thinks his voice sounds casual, even if his breath comes more strained than it usually does. 

“Pretend like you haven’t spent every minute thinking about the fact that you’ll have to see him again, since you got the call.”

It’s shocking, out-of-the-blue and unfortunately, completely true. Mario can’t suppress his flinch at the words, but gets himself under control again quickly. “I’m fine.” 

“Really?” Leon asks. “So you haven’t been on edge ever since they called you up?” 

“I’m fine,” Mario repeats, hating the strain in his voice. “Just leave it.”

“You can talk to me,” Leon says quietly. “About anything.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mario snaps. “I’m part of the National Team. This isn’t news for me. _I’m fine_.” 

“Alright,” Leon sounds resigned and fuck, Mario is so pissed at him all of a sudden. Why can’t Leon just let this go?

They lie in silence for a couple of minutes, Leon carefully starting to trace his fingertips through the fine hair at Mario’s temple. Mario lets him, grateful for the respite in spite of his annoyance. Eventually Leon starts tracing his ear instead and Mario shivers when his boyfriend tugs on his earlobe gently, fingers closed around the shiny stud for a brief moment. 

“You wear these a lot.” 

“Hm.” The caress makes him sleepy and he doesn’t open his eyes when he answers. “They’re diamonds.” 

Leon’s fingers leave his ear and Mario cracks his eyes open after a few moments, startling at the frown on his boyfriend’s face. “Diamonds? Are you serious?” 

“Yes?” Mario says, confused. “What’s wrong with diamonds?”

“Only that they’re about the most unethical luxury good you can buy,” Leon says, his brow still furrowed. “Did you get them from a conflict-free branch at least?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mario says in clipped tones. He has no nerve for a guilt trip right now. “They were a gift.” 

“Ah,” Leon says and there’s something about his tone that sparks the anger Mario was trying to get a hold of earlier. 

“What? Why don’t you just say what you want to say, Leo?” 

Leon sighs. “I don’t want to fight with you, Mar.”

“Neither do I, but you’re making it kind of hard right now,” Mario snaps. “I happen to like these earrings.” 

“And the fact that Marco gave them to you has nothing to do with that.” 

Mario recoils, trying in vain to cover up his reaction. “I didn’t say who they were a gift from.” 

“No,” Leon agrees with a sigh. “But if they’re actually diamonds, they must have cost a fortune. I doubt that either your parents, or Ann have that much to spare to spend on jewelry. That leaves him.” 

It’s blunt, borderline rude and entirely true of course. Mario won’t let that throw him for long though. “So? What does it matter? Does me wearing them make you jealous or something?” 

Leon looks sad all of a sudden and before Mario can pull back his boyfriend has cupped his cheek, stroking along his jaw with a tenderness that makes Mario ache. “No, Mar,” he says softly. “I just wish you felt like you could talk to me.” 

*

Sitting in a hotel lobby in Frankfurt three days later, his stomach trying to turn itself upside down every time someone walks through the broad front doors, Mario still can’t get Leon’s words out of his head. Their parting was awkward, so many things left unsaid as Leon brushed a kiss onto his cheek and hugged him briefly, his well wishes for the upcoming week ringing true, if carrying a hint of sadness. It kept Mario’s thoughts so occupied afterwards he was actually glad to be only subbed on for the last five minutes of the Leverkusen match. Even those were a struggle as Mario tried to concentrate on the game, something which had never posed a problem for him before.

Leon’s words ripped away the veil of denial Mario was carrying like a shroud, the fact that he would have to face Marco no longer something to be pushed from his mind. If Mario is honest with himself, his utter inability to concentrate on anything has very little to do with Leon seeing through him so easily, or even the fight they had. Ever since the call-up his nerves were strung taut, even as Mario refused to think about anything but his recovery and training. Leon’s assessment was merely the pluck to make them sing and he hasn’t been able to settle down ever since. He realizes he’ll have to talk to Leon when he gets back home, but for now that’s the least of Mario’s worries. 

Seeing Marco again like this, surrounded by his current and former teammates, the National Team atmosphere that always brings back memories of the first time they met is probably the worst circumstance Mario could imagine for their reunion. If Mario dared to think of it at all, he never imagined it to take place in the lobby of some random hotel that’s minimalistic to the point of sterility either. 

The front door opens again and Mario’s stomach heaves violently when he spots a tall, blonde figure, only to curse himself a moment later when Schü wanders into the lobby, scanning the room and spotting Mario immediately. The smile on his friend’s face is so genuine and Mario is so honestly happy to see him that he’s across the lobby before he even knows it, throwing his arms around Schü and getting squeezed back so enthusiastically that he has a hard time not to smile himself. 

“So glad to see you, man.” Schü pulls back so they can exchange their complicated handshake, Mario grabbing one of his bags as he leads him to the couch he claimed for himself before the masses started to arrive. Their Bayern troop was the first to arrive, but Thomas, Jérôme and Manu already gave in to the temptation of going up to their rooms, only Basti, Fips and Toni lingering in the lobby to greet and talk to the others. 

“How was your flight?” 

Schü drops down onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh, but waggles his fingers in a so-so gesture. “Decent. Some turbulence over the Channel, but that’s always the case.” 

“Fucking jetsetter,” Mario accuses fondly, surprised by the sheer happiness Schü’s presence brings him. It shouldn’t really. André’s been one of his best friends in this business ever since he met him, probably _the_ best friend apart from Marco, despite the fact that they see very little of each other. There’s something calming about Schü, an ease and settlement in his own skin that Mario has always envied and that radiates reassurance to him even now, when the prospect of the Dortmund guys arriving any second has him glancing towards the doors almost constantly. 

“You can talk,” André shoots back and chuckles. “Biggest Bundesliga transfer ever.” 

“That was Javí,” Mario defends, though he knows the hand money that was paid for him exceeded that of his teammate by far. “And they haven’t had much use for me yet.” 

André’s face grows sympathetic as he leans forward to regard Mario’s leg, like the injuries might still be visible. “Fucking bad luck that was. We’re going to rock this week though, bro. Mark my words.”

Mario can’t help it, he has to laugh. “You always say that.” 

“And I’m always right. After all this time, how can you doubt- hey, there they are!”

Mario’s stomach plummets as he turns to look where Schü pointed to, the doors opening to admit a group all too familiar to Mario, Ilkay in the lead. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize Schü is saying something, because he’s too busy scanning the new arrivals, trying to spot blond hair. When he doesn’t find Marco he turns towards André, who is still talking. 

“Sorry, what?” 

Schü rolls his eyes at him. “I _said_ colds are the worst. Though I guess this way I get you in the training exercises.” 

Mario still has trouble following this conversation and little patience to find out why. “What?” 

Schü frowns at him. “That’s the rules. With Marco gone, I inherit you. Don’t you dare glomp onto Toni or something, I _will_ kick you. It’s bad enough I’m the only Premier League guy here.” 

“You’re not, Per and Lukas are here,” Mario says without thinking, so totally not what he actually wants to talk about. But the next part is harder, trickier to navigate without revealing too much. There’s no helping it though. “Where’s Marco?” 

André throws him a startled glance. “He’s sick. Came down with the flu a few days ago, so they cut him from the squad. Didn’t he tell you?” 

Mario just shakes his head, worrying that trying to answer that question might result in breaking into hysterical laughter. Schü raises his eyebrows and Mario knows this is bad, knows that André better than anyone now cottoned on to something being wrong. But it’s not like he can turn back time, so he tries a smile, jerking his head towards the reception. “Want to get the keys and head upstairs before they try and pull us in for dinner?” 

*

The relief is expected. Mario spent hours in the last couple of days wishing he wouldn’t have to face Marco like this, the prospect of having to see him again so daunting his body started to physically react to it. So the relief is fine. It’s the disappointment that’s harder to deal with. Missing Marco has become such a constant in Mario’s life that he doesn’t really pay attention to it when he can help it, though his failure to do so is obvious every time he opens the bottom drawer of his closet and pushes aside bundled socks until he finds soft-worn cloth beneath his fingers. 

But this is something else. Marco’s absence is thrown into sharp relief once again and knowing that having to face his best friend like this would have been dreadful doesn’t help Mario to deal with it, as paradoxical as that is. He misses Marco every time he joins the others for training, every time Schü wanders into his room to hang out just the two of them and even sitting on the bench and watching the others play the match against Ireland. It reminds him of the Euros, and remembering the fun they had even while being frustrated about the little play time they got makes him ache for Marco in a fundamental way that not even Schü’s presence and the thrill of being able to bear his country’s colors again can soothe. 

They have fun of course, it’s hard not to when every International break feels so much like summer camp, the group’s excitement for next year’s World Cup and being able to be part of it palpable. Ilkay and Mats are glad to see him again and Mario is, too, even though the way Mats’ eyes rest on him makes him nervous, too aware that his friend is one of the few people that might be able to tell how much Marco’s absence is affecting him. Schü hasn’t brought it up so far and Mario has to wonder how much his friend guessed about Marco’s and his estrangement. Mario’s reaction on the first day was really too telling for André to stay oblivious. 

He’s glad for Schü’s silence, his friend obviously determined to allow them their space. But Mario knows Mats is nothing like André in that regard, even if his former teammate didn’t have a lot more information than Schü does about what happened between him and Marco during his last year at BVB. So he’s not particularly surprised when Mats corners him the morning after the Sweden game. 

Mario is still flying high after his performance the night before, being subbed on for the second half and assisting Schü, before scoring his own goal. It’s the most football he’s played since May and the first time he felt like he even came close to his best form and the thrill of it hasn’t entirely faded from his blood when he opens his hotel room door to a knock the next morning, only to find Mats on the other side.

“Can I come in?” 

For a second Mario contemplates saying no, to slam the door in Mats face and to avoid him for the remainder of their stay. Instead he steps aside, keenly aware that doing that would give away his state of mind more clearly than anything Mats probably observed in the last week. His friend might suspect how much Marco’s absence grates on Mario, but Mario is still determined to give him nothing, the pity he’ll very likely receive something he can live without. 

“We didn’t really get a chance to talk,” Mats says as he sits down on the bed, Mario joining him after a moment of fighting against the urge to remain standing. It would look odd, even though putting Mats between himself and the door goes against the flight instinct that’s clawing to gain control of him even as he puts on a calm demeanor. 

“Never much time,” he remarks noncommittally, which is true enough. International break, despite its name, is among the busiest weeks of the year with all the travelling and schedules to keep to. 

“How are you?” 

It’s the question he’s been dreading and Mario thinks for a split second before answering, deliberately choosing to misunderstand. “Better now. It was weird, not being able to play, you know? But last night made up for a lot of it.” 

The grin on his face is real, the memory of scoring and Schü almost tackling him in his enthusiasm doing its part to lend truth to his mislead. Mats is having none of it though. “I need to talk to you about Marco,” he says and his voice sounds so serious that every alarm bell in Mario’s head starts to ring, making the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. 

“I’m seeing someone.” He blurts it out and curses himself seconds later, the words so obviously a desperate bid to keep Mats from asking about how he’s dealing with things. Worse, it sounds like a lie. Like something he made up to spare himself the pity of his friend, who knows that Marco moved on and is trying to help Mario do the same. 

To his surprise Mats looks unsettled rather than disbelieving. “You…are?” 

He’s all in now and though Mario never intended to share this with Mats, he can’t backtrack without making it even worse. “Yeah. Kind of a coincidence really. I’ve known him since we were kids, but I ran into him a few months ago and we’ve been going out since then, so…” Mario realizes he’s babbling and forces himself to shut his mouth, fingers digging into the comforter where Mats can’t see. 

Mats still seems thrown and there’s something to the curve of his mouth that’s almost sad as struggles to give Mario a smile. Mario can’t for the life of him figure out why, but he honestly doesn’t care, not when every inch of his being is determined on keeping it together long enough for Mats not to get suspicious. “That’s…great. I’m really happy for you, Mario.” 

He sounds the opposite and Mario would wonder about that, he really would, but he needs to lead this conversation back to something more innocuous and so he forces a smile onto his face. “So how are things? All of the new guys settling in well?” 

Like he doesn’t know. Like he hasn’t watched every single game and seen his old team thrive with Mario’s replacements. The new striker especially. Mats nods and he appears almost distracted now, running a hand through his dark hair and looking every inch the brooding hero of a cheap romance novel. “Yeah, it’s been good. Messy at first, but we make do.” 

Mario knows what question has to come next and steels himself, the smile on his face impenetrable. “How’s Marco?”

_Excellent. Scoring more goals than ever. On fire every time he enters the pitch, the opponent’s defense line growing nervous when he so much as touches the ball._

Mats looks at him finally and his distraction has disappeared, a hard edge to the line of his jaw as he meets Mario’s eyes. “He’s great. Marco’s great.”

*

Mario forgot how much he loves road trips. It’s been ages since he’s actually had the time to just get into his car and drive and since the trip down to Munich four months ago, he hasn’t even left the city. Now, with Leon next to him, Lotte doing her best to stick her head out the window in the back seat and the Bavarian countryside flying by, Mario thinks it hardly gets better than this. They decided to avoid the Autobahn, even though this way it will take them twice as long to reach Memmingen and so far it’s been nothing but trees, fields and the occasional village as they make their way towards their hometown. 

Going to Memmingen for a couple of days was Leon’s idea. Mario agreed immediately, the prospect of getting out of Munich and seeing his grandparents again too appealing to pass up. There’s no training for anyone who was called on for their National Team and actually played, so Mario has time off until Monday anyway. He’s not sure how Leon is juggling his class load, but his boyfriend didn’t mention anything, so Mario doesn’t either, too happy they seem to be doing okay again. 

He was worried about seeing Leon again when he returned, their fight – if you could even call it that – heavy on his mind in a way it hadn’t been while he’d been away. There had been too much other stuff going on for him to worry about what he’d be facing in Munich and as it turned out, any worrying would have been pointless anyway. When Mario texted Leon about being back, his boyfriend turned up at his flat half an hour later, greeting him with a long kiss that erased at least some of Mario’s doubts about Leon being mad at him. He suggested going to Memmingen that same night and so they packed up the car the next morning and headed West. 

They pull off at the next rest stop and let Lotte chase a stick for five minutes before continuing, Mario switching to the passenger seat as Leon drives. They have the music playing loudly and Mario puts his feet up on the dashboard, removing his sweater as he reclines in the late morning sun filtering in through the windows. Leon starts singing along to one of the songs and grabs Mario’s hand, tugging on it to get him to join in as well. He’s insistent, so Mario complies. Five minutes later they’re howling at the top of their lungs, Mario gasping for air in between bouts of laughter and singing. Lotte is barking excitedly in the back seat and it’s such a perfect mess that Mario can’t help but lean over the gear shift to kiss Leon, the car drifting dangerously into the opposite lane that’s fortunately empty. 

Everything else seems very far away just then, like the universe has shrunken down to just Mario, Leon and Lotte, continuing on their trek West in the bright morning sun. 

*

The big chestnut tree Mario used to climb around in as a kid has covered his grandparents’ driveway in a thick carpet of leaves and Mario makes a point of walking straight through them to hear the rustling sound he’s loved since he was little. Summer is his favorite season, but autumn has its charms and they’re on full show here at his grandparents’ home, the big half-timber house covered in red ivy. 

Mario doesn’t go to the front door, instead stepping into the huge garden and rounding the house until he finds his grandmother, standing on a ladder beneath on of the plum trees, a bucket slung over her elbow and balancing in a way that would surely give Mario’s grandfather a heart attack, if he saw her. She catches sight of him as soon as he steps around the corner and her eyes widen, the smile on her face radiant and making her look no older than sixty. 

“Mario!” 

She’s down from the ladder with a quickness that belies her age and Mario beams at her, stepping into her embrace and kissing her cheek with so much force that her wide-brimmed gardening hat gets knocked askew. “Hi, Granny.” 

“Sweetheart, let me look at you,” she demands, taking a hold of his shoulders with gloved hands and eyeing him critically. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you anywhere but the television.”

Mario ducks his head and she sighs, patting his cheek before putting the bucket with plums into his hands. “Have some of these, sweetheart, they’re lovely this year. I’ll have to fix you a decent lunch, you look positively gaunt. How long are you staying?” 

“Two nights, if that’s alright with you and Grandpa.” Mario is relieved when her smile gets even brighter.

“Of course it is, don’t be silly. We love having one of our boys stay with us.” 

Mario follows her into the house, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder as he happily inhales the scent that immediately makes him feel five years old again, his grandparent’s house as familiar to him as his own. The kitchen is the same as he remembers it and Mario drops down at the big wooden table in the corner, surrounded by a bench and roughly carved chairs that carry the same rustic charm the entire house radiates. 

Most of the furniture in here was carved by his grandmother, Mario knows. She gave up the craft years ago, but until then she’d been running a successful carpenter’s shop for which Mario’s grandfather handled the business end. Mario has many memories of her chipping away at a block of wood, Fabian, Felix and he watching transfixed as the rough slab transformed into an intricately carved animal beneath their grandmother’s skilled fingers. 

“You ought to put your car in the driveway later on, sweetheart,” she says, peering into the fridge and starting to remove Tupperware containers from the shelves. “There’s enough space, you know.” 

“Thanks,” Mario says, running his fingers over the pattern of the checkered table cloth. “But I didn’t park on the street actually. You remember Leon? From across the creek? We sort of carpooled and he took the car to his folks’ place.” 

His grandmother turns back to face him and Mario puts on his best innocent expression as she regards him sharply. Her gray hair is falling openly around her lined, weather-worn face and her dark eyes bore into him, the same way they used to when she was trying to get him to admit, who destroyed the lamps in her workshop by kicking a ball around where they weren’t allowed to. “Leon Wagner?” 

“Yes,” Mario says and forces himself to stay silent after that.

His grandmother raises her eyebrows at him. “I didn’t know the two of you were still in contact.” 

“We weren’t,” Mario admits, knowing that in a town this size he wouldn’t be able to get away with a lie. His grandparents actually talk to their neighbors. “But we ran into each other after I moved to Munich. He wanted to visit his parents for the weekend, so we figured we’d drive up together and save on gas.” 

He can tell his grandmother isn’t buying his story for a second, but thankfully Franz, his grandparents’ old and decidedly eccentric cat choses that exact moment to enter the kitchen. He twines around Mario’s legs until he picks him up and deposits him in his lap, the black cat’s purr loud and rumbling beneath his palm as he strokes its thick fur. When Mario chances a glance at his grandmother again, she’s regarding the two of them fondly and Mario breathes a silent sigh of relief, though he’s not stupid enough to believe this will be the end of her curiosity in this matter. 

She spares him any questions about Leon over lunch though, which Mario is decidedly grateful for as he digs into the delicious leftovers that put anything he consumed in their five-star hotel kitchen in the past week to shame. His grandfather is an excellent cook. Which is fortunate, since Mario’s grandmother by her own admission can’t even boil an egg correctly. “Where’s Grandpa?” he wants to know, not quite swallowing all his food before he does, which earns him a swat to the head. 

“Fishing. Drove out to the lake this morning. Might get us a trout for dinner, unless he spends the entire time gabbing and scaring them away,” his grandmother states drily and Mario grins. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket then and he digs it out and unlocks the screen, Leon’s message popping up immediately. 

_Got everything settled, having lunch with my mom right now. Want to take Lotte for a walk later? I think we need to talk._

*

Mario doesn’t use the street to get to Leon’s house, instead choosing the path he always took as a kid, jumping the creek and climbing the fence between their houses with ease. He’s changed into thick jeans and pulled on a jacket over his sweater, something he doesn’t mind getting dirty. Well. Minds less. He walks along the pond in Leon’s backyard, glancing up at the tree house that looks surprisingly well-kept for a wooden structure built more than fifteen years ago. Leon’s siblings probably used it long after their older brother grew out of playing in it. It’s big enough to fit even a grown person rather comfortably. 

Lotte bounds around the corner when he walks up to the terrace and he crouches down to pet her, allowing her to express her joy over their reunion after they haven’t seen each other for the enormous timespan of almost two hours. He’s long learned to evade her tongue by now and so he’s able to greet Leon’s mother without dog saliva on his face, even though his sweater now has both cat and dog hair on it. She doesn’t seem to mind, inviting him in for coffee, which Leon declines for both of them. They really want to get going, he says and his mother waves them off, telling Leon to be back in time for dinner. 

Leon rolls his eyes as soon as her back is turned, even as he reassures her at the same time that he wouldn’t dream of being late. They’re out the door a minute later, Lotte straining against her hated leash and pulling Mario forward quickly, restless to get to the fields and woods she can probably already scent. Leon has to slightly jog to keep up with the two of them and they reach the edge of the fields quickly. 

Mario lets Lotte off her leash as soon as they leave the last row of houses behind and she charges ahead with an excited bark, obviously overjoyed by the amount of space and fresh air around them. Leon watches her a bit sadly, his dark curls peeking out beneath his knitted beanie in a way that makes Mario want to reach out and tug on them. “The city is no place for a dog.” 

“You take good care of her,” Mario says, because it’s true. Leon does his utmost so Lotte gets her exercise, taking her on long walks around the city parks at least twice a day, despite his busy schedule. 

“Still,” Leon sighs. “I love Munich, but I can’t wait to be done with studying, so I can come back here. You don’t even know how much you miss all of this until you’re back, you know?”

Mario used to miss Memmingen in Dortmund sometimes, he remembers. He honestly can’t say he has since he moved to Munich though. “You want to live here once you have your license?”

“Not right away, maybe.” Leon pulls a worn tennis ball out of his jacket and hands it to Mario. “But someday. I want to open my practice somewhere I don’t have to tell people that they need to take their dogs outside sometimes. And I want to be close to my parents again.” 

Mario thinks an hour by car is plenty close, but he doesn’t say anything, clicking his tongue to get Lotte’s attention before he throws the ball as far as he can, watching her taking off with an excited yip. The air is crisp and clear around them and there seems to be so much more of it than in the city, the sky open and wide above them as the late afternoon sun bathes the harvested fields around them in golden light. 

“We should talk,” Leon says and it’s so much like the first time Mario saw him again back in the park that he has to smile, even as his stomach twists. 

“Have you ever noticed that there’s always a dog involved when you want to talk about our relationship?” 

Leon stares at him for a moment and then he starts to laugh, slinging an arm around Mario’s shoulder and pulling him close, his breath warm against Mario’s temple. “I’m so glad I found you again. You have no idea.” 

“But you want to talk,” Mario remarks, slipping out of Leon’s embrace as gently as he can manage to. 

Leon looks regretful, but nods, his eyes insanely blue as he meets Mario’s. “Don’t you think we need to?” 

Mario thinks of the night before he left for the Leverkusen game, glad he’s not wearing the earrings right now. He probably wouldn’t be able to keep from touching them, a habit when he gets nervous. “Maybe.” 

They walk in silence for another minute, Mario throwing the ball for Lotte twice when she bounds back towards him, long ago having realized that he’s the one to approach for this game. It allows Mario to think over what he wants to say and even though he’s loathe to approach the topic again, he knows he has to get this out of the way. “I’m sorry for snapping at you about the earrings. I know you weren’t trying to-“ 

Leon holds up a hand, stopping him. “You know it wasn’t about the earrings, Mar.” 

Mario bites down on his tongue, not knowing what to say to that. Of course he knows. But will admitting to it make this any better? 

Leon sighs. “I love you. Don’t,” he says, when Mario flinches. “It’s fine, I know you don’t feel the same way about me yet. But I need you to know, because I want this to work out between us. I care about you, Mar. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. And I think we could be good together.” 

“I care about you, too,” Mario says quietly, because if nothing else, that at least is true. 

“Then why won’t you trust me?” Leon asks softly. “Sometimes when we’re together, I can tell something is bothering you, but you won’t ever talk to me. You say you’re fine and it’s so obvious you’re not, Mar. You won’t let anyone in, not even Ann. It scares me sometimes.”

It’s damning, not least of all because he’s right. Mario can’t even try and argue, they’re both too aware he’d be lying. His inability to open himself up to anyone has been with him for as long as Mario can remember and the only person to consistently ignore and barrel past almost any barrier he constructed used to be Marco. His best friend had a gift for reading Mario that allowed him to maneuver around his silences and shields, constantly treading inside the lines Mario drew around himself, without ever overstepping.

How can he say any of that to Leon though? Leon, who already makes so many allowances for him and loves Mario in spite of them all? There’s nothing to say and maybe Leon knows it as well, because he doesn’t wait for Mario to give him an answer. 

“I don’t need you to love me back right now. And if you tell me you don’t think you can do this, I promise I won’t be mad. We’ll still be friends, just like we used to. But I need to know that you’re in this as much as I am. Because I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

Mario opens his mouth and is glad when Leon puts a hand onto his arm to stop him, because he has no idea what he was going to say. “You don’t have to answer right now. Just, think about it? My parents and I are driving up to see my uncle tonight, so I’ll be gone until tomorrow afternoon. Tell me then.” 

He whistles at Lotte, who returns from investigating what may or may not be a dead rabbit. Mario watches the two of them together, his mind strangely blank as he tries to think of anything he might be able to say tomorrow that won’t effectively end the relationship that’s been his lifeline in the last few months.

*

Leon leaves a couple of hours later, bringing over Lotte before getting into his parents’ car. Mario agreed to take her for the night and his grandmother is overjoyed, feeding Lotte scraps she definitely wouldn’t be allowed to eat, if her actual owner was present. Leon is pretty strict about her diet. Mario knows he should put a stop to it, but can’t bring himself to, helping his grandmother peel the mountain of potatoes she had him lug up from the basement after a call from his grandfather. 

“They’ve had a good haul. And you need to eat more anyway, sweetheart, I can count your ribs.” 

Mario sincerely doubts that, but he doesn’t disagree, sitting down at the kitchen table and getting to work. He’ll probably have to be the one to cook them, too, unless they wait for his grandfather to arrive. In any case, he’s not about to let his grandmother try. It’s been a long while since he’s done this, but he gets back into it quickly, the fairly dull work almost soothing as his mind keeps turning over the things Leon told him earlier. The ultimatum he gave him, though that’s probably a very harsh way of putting it. 

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Leon is asking him to make a decision. A decision Mario doesn’t know whether he’s capable of making. It’s not like he hasn’t been trying after all. Sometimes it feels like all he’s been doing is try and make this relationship between the two of them work. The fact that it obviously wasn’t enough makes him want to curl up in bed and forget about the whole thing, despite the ache that even the thought of losing Leon causes. 

Mario has no idea how to open himself up to Leon in the way his boyfriend wants him to. And even if he somehow managed that, how will Leon feel, knowing that almost everything Mario is unhappy with in Munich comes straight back to Marco? That Mario still hasn’t found a way to get over the loss of his best friend, as hard as he’s been trying to. Mario wants to tell Leon he’s all in, but how can that not be a lie when just the mention of Marco makes his chest tighten in the best and worst possible way altogether? 

“Potato for your thoughts.” 

Mario startles, then takes the gnarled potato his grandmother is holding out to him with a wan smile. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired, I guess.” 

He can feel his grandmother watching him, her gaze heavy as they keep peeling and adding to the growing pile of potatoes. “You know you can tell me anything, sweetheart.” 

There’s no discernible reason this should make him feel like crying all of a sudden, the memories of spending his afternoons watching her carve something in her workshop rushing back to him, his coloring book in his lap as he sat perched on one of the finished dressers or tables. She was always his biggest confidant back then, more trusted than even his parents when something went wrong in school or at football practice. And she always had an answer for him. 

“Do you think there’s just one perfect person for everyone?” Mario asks, surprised by the sound of his own voice. “Like a soulmate or something?” 

His grandmother stops peeling the potato she’s holding, not surprised but thinking it over. “Yes. I think I do.” 

“Oh.” Mario looks down at his fingers, swallowing. It’s ridiculous, but his stomach feels like it’s been filled with lead all of a sudden, heavy and dragging. He tries to swallow down the ridiculous disappointment he feels, telling himself it doesn’t matter anyway. More than a minute passes before Mario feels like he can speak around the lump in his throat. “So how did you know Grandpa was yours?” 

He glances up in surprise when his grandmother laughs, a loud bark that has Franz disappearing from the window sill next to them with a displeased mew, wandering over to where Lotte is lying next to the oven and settling down against her side. His grandmother is wiping at her eyes when she notices Mario staring, shaking her head a little, but still unable to contain her mirth. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t laugh really. It’s just that I wasn’t talking about your grandfather.” 

Mario raises his eyebrows at her and she uses one of the dish towels next to her to swat at him. “Now, don’t look at me like that. I love your grandfather. The day we got married was the happiest day of my life, until your father was born.”

“But he’s not your soulmate?” Mario’s voice sounds confused to his own ears.

“No, sweetheart.” His grandmother is smiling gently now. “I don’t believe most people’s soulmates are their husbands or wives, though watching all those movies sure makes it seem that way!” 

“So yours-“

“Was my sister.” The smile she gives him is sad and Mario hates himself for bringing it up all of a sudden. He can’t remember ever seeing his grandmother look that way before. “You never met her of course, she died even before your father was born. But she would have loved you. All of you boys of course, but especially you.”

Mario wonders why that should be, but keeps his mouth shut as he listens. His grandmother’s gaze is far off now as she recounts. “Her name was Annemarie. You were named after her, did you know that?” 

When Mario shakes his head, she waves a hand. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. But you remind me of her a lot. Maybe that’s why you were always my favorite.” 

She laughs when she sees his scandalized expression. “Don’t tell your brothers now, but it’s true. There was a sensibility in her, you could almost call it a sadness. I see the same thing in you sometimes.”

“She doesn’t sound like you at all,” Mario says quietly and his grandmother smiles as she takes his hand. 

“She wasn’t. We were two very different people. But we loved each other very much. And she knew me better than anyone, even your grandfather. You know she was actually the one who told me to marry him? Said he’d be good for me and keeping my wild ways in check.” She laughs softly. “That’s just how Marie was. Always looking out for me.” 

Mario squeezes her hand and she strokes a thumb across his knuckles. “We didn’t see each other as much after I moved in with your grandfather, but every Saturday, the two of us went out to the woods to gather mushrooms together. Talk about anything and everything that had happened during the week. That’s still the way I remember her best, with a wicker basket and a red scarf wrapped around her head, just like the one I wore so the hunters wouldn’t accidentally mistake us for deer.” 

Her voice has grown hoarse and Mario has to swallow, too, remembering the dozens of times his grandmother took him and his brothers out into the woods to gather mushrooms when they were kids. He never thought much about it, but he knows she still does it every Saturday. He squeezes her hand even harder and she smiles at him, though her eyes are wet with tears. 

“Everybody needs someone like that in their life, Mario. Someone, who knows them better than they know themselves, someone they can entrust with anything at all. And if you find that, you better hold onto it, because losing it is the worst thing I can think of.” 

*

The clock tower strikes three and Mario struggles to turn onto his other side, earning a low hiss by Franz who doesn’t like being jostled where he’s sleeping on Mario’s blanket. On the floor next to his bed, Lotte whines softly, obviously awake and still upset that Mario wouldn’t allow her into his bed when the cat is. Mario sighs and slips one hand from the sheets to scratch her ears in apology. It’s not that he has anything against sleeping next to her, but the twin bed is small as it is and Franz is taking up too much room already, oblivious to the fact that a cat his size shouldn’t need half of a blanket. 

It hardly matters though. Mario went to bed relatively early, the dinner with his grandparents delicious but so filling it made him sleepy right away. His grandmother was a lot more silent than usual while they ate and Mario caught his grandfather shooting her glances when he thought she wasn’t noticing. It made Mario feel guilty and vaguely sad, the memory of a woman he never met hanging in the air between them and making it impossible to keep up a lighthearted conversation. It’s made sleep elusive, too, no matter how hard Mario tries to simply close his eyes and drift away. 

Lotte perks up when Mario slides out of bed, cursing under his breath at the feel of the cold wooden floor beneath his feet. By the time he’s struggled into his jeans and sweater she’s already hopped into the spot he vacated, curling up next to Franz in obvious comfort. Mario sighs and strokes both of their heads before tiptoeing out of the room, careful not to step on the parts of the stairs he knows creak loud enough to wake his grandparents. 

The night air is bitterly cold and Mario zips up the jacket he’s glad he brought as he creeps through the garden, glad for the moonlight as he approaches the creek between his grandparents’ and Leon’s house. Jumping it and climbing the fence is harder than it was in daylight, but Mario manages, even though he almost falls on his face when he trips over a garden hose in Leon’s backyard. The treehouse looks almost eerie at night, the opening to climb through and the windows like dark eyes in the moonlight. 

The climb is easier than Mario expected, all the wooden beams nailed into the tree’s trunk sturdy and much easier to grasp now that he’s taller than three feet. The inside of the treehouse smells dusty, but clean and he sits on the edge of the platform after pulling himself up the rest of the way, looking down into Leon’s backyard. The house is entirely dark, a quietness that speaks to abandonment rather than people sleeping. They must all be spending the night at Leon’s uncle’s place then. 

His phone looks innocuous when he pulls it out of his jacket and yet Mario has never felt as much of an urge to destroy something as he thinks about throwing it down into the pond in Leon’s backyard, the water surely doing damage even the fall might not inflict. If he’s ever been this afraid to do something he can’t remember it now and his heart is beating loud enough that he’s sure the entire neighborhood will wake up from it as he opens a text message, hesitating before typing.

_i’m sorry._

He stares at the words and deletes them immediately, almost laughing at their inadequacy to express what he’s feeling right now. This time he’s more hesitant as he types, his fingers already growing numb from the cold. 

_i miss you._

It’s true. Nothing has ever carried more truth, but it’s still so far from what he wants Marco to know, falling ridiculously short of telling his best friend how much pain his absence causes Mario. He types out at least two dozen more messages, some windingly long and some no more than a couple of words. He deletes them all, starting to shiver as the clock tower strikes three times, the sound so much louder out here than from the guest bedroom in his grandparents’ house. The air is starting to feel painful on his face, the cold slicing against his skin like a knife as he hunches over the bright screen, typing idly with fingers that have lost all feeling. He probably should have worn gloves. 

It’s not until the message window disappears all of a sudden that Mario realizes what he just did, his heart jumping into his throat as he realizes that instead of deleting that last one; his idleness made him hit send instead. He pulls up the sent folder with shaking fingers and stares in disbelief as he reads the words again, the urge to throw his phone into the pond resurfacing like a wave, only this time he wants to jump right after it. 

_what’s the name of that ice planet the rebels hide from the imperium @? u know, the one where han has to put luke into that weird horned horse thing_

It’s been on his mind ever he started to honestly shiver and Mario wants to laugh out loud, because there’s little else to do at this point. He hasn’t talked to Marco for four months and now the first thing his best friend will see when he wakes up is a flippant message that reads like Mario wrote it while drunk, cemented by the fact that he sent it at almost four in the morning. It’s a fucking nightmare and just like Mario to make a situation that was already pretty fucked up even worse, all with a text message that merely contained two sentences. 

He lies back and stares at the clear night sky, not even caring that the cold now seeps through his jacket from where his back is touching the wooden platform. If anything he’s glad for it, idly wondering how long it might take him to get hypothermia out here, hopefully a severe enough case that someone will have to take him to the hospital and confiscate his phone for a couple of days. That way he might have a temporary reprieve until Marco tells him to get lost. 

His phone vibrates then and it makes a loud, rattling sound as it moves against the wooden boards where Mario put it down next to himself. Mario stays very, very still, swallowing against the rising bile in his throat as he stares at the stars above, wishing for a shooting star, a miracle that could get him out of this situation he’s brought on himself. It takes him four tries to unlock his phone, his fingers shaking too badly to type in the code correctly. 

The faint hope that it might be a coincidence dies when he sees who the message is from and Mario opens it before the urge to throw his phone down into the pond wins out, steeling himself as much as he’s capable of. There’s just one word written on the screen and it takes Mario a couple of seconds to even make sense of it, his nerves twisting it into different shapes and draining all sense from it. 

_hoth_

The meaning of it slowly trickles through to Mario and he raises a shaking hand to his face, covering his mouth as his eyes skim over the word over and over again, the first thing Marco has said to him in months. Months and it’s four in the morning and Mario made a complete idiot of himself, thoughtless to a degree he doesn’t even want to think about. And yet this is Marco’s reply. An answer to the question Mario asked. 

He hits call before he can even think about it, the phone warm against his ear as he listens to the dial tone. 

“Mario?” 

Marco sounds _awful_ and Mario vaguely remembers what André told him, feels guilt when he realizes he must have woken Marco up on top of that. But he’s still smiling so hard it feels like his face is splitting in two, because the hoarse croak of Marco’s voice is still the best thing he’s heard in a very long time. 

“Schü said you had a cold.” His own voice sounds deranged, his jaw tight from trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he speaks. 

Marco is quiet for a long moment and when he speaks again, he sounds a lot more awake, though still scratchy. “I did. Mario, what’s going on?” 

He’s _worried_ , Mario doesn’t even need to see his face to know it’s true. It’s all there, in the way he says Mario’s name and Mario wants to cry, because none of this is fair to Marco. He deserves a lot better than having to deal with the mess that is Mario’s life. And yet there’s nothing to it now. 

“I don’t want to be picking mushrooms by myself after you’re dead,” he blurts out and good _God_ , has he actually gone and lost it? Marco seems to have come to a similar conclusion and his tone grows alarmed. 

“ _What?_ Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mario says and he knows laughing isn’t even remotely appropriate right now, but he can’t help it, the joy of actually talking to Marco getting the better of him. “I’m fine, I’m good, it’s okay. I just had to talk to you, because I don’t want us to become my grandmother and her sister, so I had to call and I know it’s early and I’m sorry for waking you and for asking about Star Wars, but it’s so fucking cold and I couldn’t get it out of my head and then I hit send by accident and just-“ he knows he’s babbling, but is physically incapable of stopping, only breaking off when Marco’s voice interrupts him. 

“Mario, are you outside?” Marco sounds sharp now and Mario blinks, because what does that have to do with anything?

“Yes? It’s fine, I’m wearing a jacket.” 

“You don’t _sound_ fine,” Marco says. “Go back inside. Now.” 

“I can’t, I’ll wake my grandparents,” Mario says truthfully. “And I have to talk to you.” 

There’s a long beat of silence and when Marco speaks, his voice has grown wary. “Why? Why now?” 

“Because I miss you,” Mario says and the words are like taking the first breath of air after a lifetime under water. “Because I’ve _been_ missing you and I know it’s my fault, but I can’t- I had to call. Before I became too scared again.”

“Scared?” Marco sounds shocked, but even worse he sounds _hurt_ and Mario winces. “When have I _ever_ given you a reason to be scared to talk to me?” 

“Never,” Mario whispers and it has nothing to do with wanting to keep quiet and everything with the fact that his voice is threatening to give out on him. “But things were so screwed up here at first and I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. And then I couldn’t talk to you at all, because I didn’t want to lie, not to you.” 

The line stays silent for so long that Mario is sure Marco has hung up on him, can’t even blame him for it. Mario’s heart jumps when Marco starts to speak again. “And it’s better now?” 

It’s not forgiveness exactly, but then again Mario didn’t expect any in the first place. “Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know.”

Marco’s snort against his ear makes something warm blossom in Mario’s chest, soothing some of the ache there. “Shut up. It’s just…” he drags his fingernail across the wooden boards next to him, not knowing how to go on. Unsure if he even wants to, or should. Marco doesn’t need any of this and Mario doesn’t deserve his forgiveness anyway.

“Mario.” It’s said quietly, the mere inflection Marco gives his name carrying so many different meanings. 

Mario can’t resist that pull, he never could and the words are out before he knows he wants to say them. “I feel like no one needs me here.” 

It’s a relief to say it out loud and damning at the same time. He half-expects Marco to laugh at him, but his best friend’s voice is only hesitant. “The injuries…”

“I know, I know,” Mario says quickly, cutting him off. He doesn’t want to hear that spiel again, not from Marco. Now that he’s finally talking about this, he needs Marco to understand. “I need time. But it’s like…I’m second choice.”

It hurts to admit it, to actually say the words that have been ghosting around his head for so long. On the other end of the line he can hear Marco inhale sharply. 

“Second choice to whom?” 

Mario doesn’t say anything, but it’s not necessary. 

“Guardiola?” Marco asks incredulously. 

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” Mario says, keeping his voice level as best as he can. “I think they lied when they said he asked for me. It’s the board that wanted me, not him.” 

Marco doesn’t say anything for a long while and his voice is contemplative when he does. “You knew that though.” 

Mario flinches, though he realizes he deserved that. “I know, I just-“

“Shut up,” Marco says, not unkindly. “Listen to me. Back when you told me you were going, you said it didn’t matter for what reason they wanted you. All that mattered was that they did. Am I wrong?” 

“No,” Mario mutters. “But-“ 

“But nothing,” Marco says firmly. “You’re brilliant. And once you’re on your feet again, everyone else will get to see it, too. You’ll get your chance and I _know_ you, Mario. You’ll take it when it comes along.”

Marco sounds so fucking sure of himself and Mario misses him more than ever, if that’s even possible. It makes his throat close up and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as he tries to swallow around it. His nose is starting to run and he wipes it on his sleeve before sniffing, the sound obviously carrying over the line. 

“Mario?” 

“I should have called,” he rasps, hating how rough his voice sounds. 

There’s a long pause. 

“You did,” Marco says softly and Mario feels tears prick at his eyes and wipes them away angrily. It’s ridiculous that he should cry now, when he’s finally talking to Marco again. 

“Bit late.” 

“A bit,” Marco agrees quietly. “But not too late.” 

*

The swing creaks softly beneath him as Mario sits down, feet kicking up the leaves that have gathered on the ground, which Lotte immediately takes as an invitation to pounce, starting to dig and snap at the fluttering leaves excitedly. Mario nudges her with his sneaker until she’s not directly throwing the dirt she’s digging up onto his pants, but otherwise lets her be. She’s allowed to be a little wired after all. He forgot her morning walk, sleeping like a log until nearly noon after his talk with Marco, his body’s exhaustion finally able to take care of itself with his mind at rest. 

When he woke there was a pained, panicked moment as Mario tried to determine whether last night had happened after all and he fumbled for his phone, his heartbeat only slowing when he saw the messages from last night. He had talked to Marco. And Marco hadn’t immediately told him to go to hell, though he would have been entitled to. Mario fell back onto the bed smiling like a fool, the giddy mood not having left him ever since. 

A soft nudge at his hip has him glance down and he finds Lotte with her head in his lap, trying to nose into the pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing, smelling the treats he carries in there. Mario chuckles and scratches her ears, digging in his pocket and unearthing some of the crumbling things. She takes them out of his hand carefully and he watches her fondly, remembering a time when she nearly took his fingers off in her enthusiasm. 

Taking her head in his hands, Mario scratches behind her ears until she pants happily, twisting her neck so he can get better access. “Now, don’t go telling Leo how much of these I gave you, girl. He’d kill me. This will stay our little secret, yes?” 

Not the only thing about last night that will, Mario thinks with a rush of guilt. Even knowing that Leon wouldn’t be able to understand why Mario had to talk to Marco, the thought of keeping this from his boyfriend makes him uneasy. It’s not exactly the best way to begin this new chapter in their relationship. But Mario doubts he could make Leon believe that last night wasn’t about the thing that used to exist between him and Marco, even though that’s the truth. 

It was about getting his best friend back, the only way he knew how. Mario tried for so long to get over his feelings for Marco by forgetting about him entirely and it backfired so spectacularly that he’s honestly wondering how he ever thought that might work in the first place. He needs Marco. One way or another. Maybe with having his best friend back in his life, Mario will finally be able to move on with Leon, as at odds as these goals seem to stand with one another. 

Because Mario wants to make this work. That’s all he’s tried to do in the last few months after all and it can’t all be for nothing. Not when Mario finally realizes how much Leon means to him. It’s not love yet, his boyfriend was right about that. But Mario thinks it could be, given time. 

Lotte’s bark makes him glance up, just in time to see a car pull into the driveway. Mario’s heart skips a beat and he starts to smile when he sees Leon climbing out of the passenger seat, looking impossibly tall and handsome with his dark curls and beard. Leon catches sight of him immediately, a hesitant smile blooming on his face as he approaches. Mario knows his own smile must seem impossibly wide and he actually sees the moment Leon catches on, his hesitant expression growing so relieved and happy that Mario can’t help but laugh, despite the small sting he feels. He’s doing the right thing. He _is_. 

*

The third week of October brings wind and rains, the Isar’s shores swelling and flooding some of the meadows in the English Garden. Mario starts keeping a towel in his hallway to wipe off Lotte’s paws after they take her out, a necessary concession after the couch got covered with muddy footprints the first time. Fabian brings home a pumpkin that seems too big for him to even carry up the stairs and he nearly slices off his finger when he attempts to carve it. 

Their resident vet student patches him up and finishes carving the huge thing, Ann whistling in appreciation when she sees it a couple of days later. “Very nice. You should have become an artist, Leon.” 

Leon grins at her. “Nah. I think I’ll stick with the animals. Thank you though.” 

He kisses her cheek in passing and Mario gleefully witnesses the sour look on his brother’s face, entertained by the little drama playing out between his brother and girlfriend. So far he has little proof there’s actually something going on between them, but Ann is spending an awful lot of time in Munich for someone whose semester started more than a week ago. Mario could say something, but he’s decided to give them time. If there’s anything to tell, they’ll involve him soon enough. 

Training has become a drag in the weather, but everyone takes it in stride as they press on with their quest to secure the top of the table before the winter break. They play Mainz and Mario gets subbed on for the second half, assisting twice and overall delivering his best performance in a red jersey so far. Thomas claps his shoulder afterwards and in spite of trying not to be overly optimistic, Mario thinks he’s doing better.

It’s probably simplistic to see his call to Marco as the cause of that change, but Mario can’t help but feel like it’s at least partly responsible. He’s feeling more lighthearted these days, the ache Marco’s absence caused not cured, but soothed by the tentative line of contact they established after that night. They haven’t spoken since then, but they text, almost as frequently as they used to when Marco still played for Gladbach. 

Mostly about the most random stuff and Mario senses that Marco is still hesitant around him, his best friend awfully taciturn about anything concerning BVB. He’s not sure whether Marco is trying to spare his feelings by avoiding talk about the new guys and the way he clicked with them, or whether he simply feels that Mario has no right to be that deeply involved with his old team anymore. He tries not to take it to heart, telling himself it will take time for them to get back to the comfortable way they felt around each other, too many obstacles for them to overcome in a single phone call. There’s the distance for one and the silence that went on too long for there to be no repercussions now. It’s nothing an overabundance of ridiculous pictures and messages can fix, but Mario’s determined to try anyway. 

The mere fact that Marco and he are talking again makes him happier than he could possibly put into words and no amount of awkwardness lingering between them can spoil that. Hiding the cause of that happiness from anyone else, especially Leon, is a lot harder and it’s making Mario’s head ache on most days. He knows he made the right decision in keeping silent about it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel guilty every time his phone vibrates in his pocket, warring with the thrill it still gives him to finally be able to talk to Marco again. Mario wishes he could tell Ann at least, but she’s never been Marco’s biggest fan and he fears what she’ll have to say about him keeping secrets from Leon. 

Their game against Hertha takes place on a cloudless Saturday afternoon and Mario got tickets for not only his brother, but Ann and Fabian as well. They wave at him from the VIP section during warm-up and Mario feels a buzz that doesn’t quite go away even when the game starts, lighting his nerves on fire as he runs across the pitch. 

It happens five minutes before halftime. He’s on the left wing and there’s plenty of space around him when Daniel drops in the cross, Hertha tagging most of their offense, but especially the taller guys. One of them hurries towards Mario when he sees where it will land, but it’s too late, Mario already off the ground and trying to redirect the ball with his head. The ball soars above Hertha’s defense, almost seeming to hover in the air as it shoots past their goalkeeper, who pounds the ground in anger after it hits the net. 

Basti and Thomas are there in a flash, wrapping him in a hug and laughing like wild men, ruffling Mario’s head. The others are rushing towards them as well and Basti slaps his chest in excitement, while Thomas just repeats. “A fucking header!” over and over again.

Afterwards everyone congratulates him on his first Bundesliga goal for Bayern and when he gets home the four of them celebrate in style, Ann demanding they open a bottle of the good champagne for this occasion. Thus Mario is suitably tipsy when he and Leon retire back to his bedroom an hour later, not even minding when his boyfriend insists on bottoming. Mario still doesn’t like his part in that particular activity much, but he’s grown used to it, no longer feeling the same anxiety he did the first time. 

His phone lights up halfway through and Mario is suddenly doubly glad, since he turned the volume off and Leon can’t actually see his eyes slide over to the nightstand from the way they’re positioned. Mario feels like an asshole, but he waves Leon away when his boyfriend tries to drag him into the shower, waiting for the water to start running before he grabs for his phone and opens the message. 

_nice goal._

Mario bites his lip to keep the smile from taking over his face, the urge to trace the words on the screen overwhelming. 

_aren’t u supposed to be playing instead of watching ur opponents?_

The reply comes seconds later. 

_warfare strategy. need to know how to beat u next month._

_well, watch out for my headers_

_if you bring a ladder maybe_

_fuck off_

Mario hasn’t quite managed to wipe the smile off his face when Leon returns from the bathroom, his dark curls dripping onto Mario’s bare skin as he leans down to kiss him. “You look happy.” 

“Yeah?” Mario says, hoping his voice doesn’t give anything away when he looks back at Leon. 

“Yeah,” Leon confirms, rubbing his beard against Mario’s cheek in a friendly nuzzle before pulling back. “Any particular reason?” 

Mario just shrugs, forcing himself to smile again. “I’m with you,” he says, swallowing down the dark rush of guilt he feels. 

*

They play two more games and win both of them, which Mario for the first time feels vaguely proud of, because he starts in both of them and gets to play almost all the way through. Before he knows it or has time to dedicate much thought to it, it’s time for International break again and this time Marco will actually be there. Mario tells himself his nervously twisting stomach is just his usual excitement and puts on his best fake smile when saying his goodbyes to Fabian and Leon. 

Their group is the last to arrive this time and Mario immediately gets attacked by André, who appears to have been lying in wait for him, hugging Mario like the two of them didn’t see each other only four weeks ago. “My favorite assistant!” 

Mario rolls his eyes as he tries to get out of André’s clutches to be able to look over his shoulder. Being short is so annoying sometimes. “Are you still going on about that? The game was four weeks ago. Let it go, man.” 

“I’m going to get a medal,” André sings into his ear and seriously, has he been living in the gym or something? Mario likes to think he’s more than capable of physically resisting his gangly giraffe friends, no matter how much taller than him they are, but André is still holding on to him and goddammit, this is so undignified- 

“You do realize that if you strangle him, we’re going to be one short for Poker.”

Mario’s tongue seems to dry up in his throat when he hears that voice, his heart starting to beat wildly in his chest as he finally manages to shrug out of André’s grasp, turning around slowly. 

Marco is just standing there and seeing him is such a shock and yet completely familiar at the same time that Mario has to struggle with the vertigo of it, his gaze flicking over his best friend lightning quick to take in his appearance. It hits him all of a sudden that he hasn’t actually seen Marco since that day in his parents’ driveway, watching his car disappear around the corner while Mario’s heart ripped itself out of his chest. 

He looks _good_ , Mario thinks, stupidly tall and somehow more broad-shouldered than Mario remembers him. His hair is different, the bright blonde giving way to the more natural ginger coloring since he cut it. Mario knew that, he’s seen it on TV, but it’s different, looking at him now and realizing how much time has passed. Judging from the way Marco’s eyes haven’t left Mario’s face once so far, the feeling is mutual.

Mario doesn’t like to think about how long they would have stood there staring at each other, if Schü hadn’t coughed pointedly, startling both of them into movement. There’s no thinking involved as Mario steps into Marco’s embrace, the movement instinctive as he hugs Marco at the same time he feels his best friend’s arms coming up around him. Mario has a brief second of considering that this isn’t so bad really until Marco’s smell hits him, the thing he’s been futilely chasing in the hoodie he stole for months now. 

It’s shampoo, hair product and soap, mixed together in that unique Marco scent and it hits Mario stronger than the sight or even feel of him did, driving the point home low in his belly as his throat closes up and he suddenly has to blink rapidly to keep his eyes from watering. Marco is here. _Marco_. Is here, Mario has got him back after months of longing for him and if he ever thought their separation might have dulled the effect his best friend has on him, he’s being disabused of that notion rather rapidly right now. He’s in so much trouble, but Mario can’t even bring himself to care as he digs his fingers into Marco’s back and breathes him in greedily, something clicking into place that hasn’t been at rest since that day in the driveway. 

*

They have training early the next morning and Mario barely makes it in time, grabbing breakfast on the way in order not to be late. The others snicker at him as he hurries to find Schü and Marco in the crowd, his hate for early starts well-documented. It’s not his fault though. The welcome dinner went on for ages last night and he’d barely slept before coming here. Which meant that he basically passed out last night and only woke when the second wake-up call rang through. 

Marco gives him a fond look when Mario makes it to his and Schü’s side and Mario tries desperately not to remember why Marco of all people knows exactly just how much of a morning person Mario isn’t. Jogi gives them a long speech about what they’re trying to achieve in these test matches and qualifiers and Mario steps from one foot to another in order not to fall asleep again, biting down a grin when he sees Marco trying not to yawn from the corner of his eye. 

When Jogi claps his hands and the assistant coaches tell them to partner up, Mario feels Marco move towards him before he even glances over, Schü giving both of them a sour look as Mario does the same. “I liked it better when you weren’t here,” he tells Marco, before wandering off to find Toni. 

“They’re giving him a medal,” Marco remarks and Mario grins, still stupidly giddy about how normal this all is. “I know. He wants us to do it, did he tell you?” 

Marco snorts as they start stretching, moving until they’re in a patch of early morning sun. “Only about ten times since breakfast. Did you even have any?” 

“On the way,” Mario says and Marco gives him an admonishing look that is so damn familiar that Mario can’t help but smile at him, which makes Marco frown even harder. 

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.” 

“Sure thing, Grandpa. Hey, no, don’t-”

“Reus! Götze! Stop this right now, I _will_ separate you,” Hansi barks across the pitch. 

Mario stops trying to pull on Marco’s shirt while his best friend reluctantly lets him out of the headlock he has him in, not without elbowing Mario sharply one more time when their coach turns away. Not missing a beat, Mario steps on his foot before moving away, plastering an innocent expression onto his face as Marco scowls at him. In his peripheral vision Mario can see Mesut laughing at the both of them and it’s all so perfectly normal, like a hundred training sessions they had before that he can’t keep from hoping that things are finally going to be okay again. 

*

It’s not that easy though. In his heart Mario probably knew that, even as the relief of talking to Marco again left little room for noticing the differences in the way his friend behaves around him. The awkwardness the conclusion of their physical relationship left between them is still there, but Mario expected that. He supposes he’ll have to get used to that sticking around, but that’s not what worries him. Marco seems…different somehow, an almost sad air surrounding him when he thinks people aren’t paying attention. He’s still awfully tight-lipped about anything BVB related and it’s driving Mario crazy, his curiosity about the time after he left well and truly piqued. 

So far he’s had almost no opportunity to ask though, training and press work taking up their day and André sticking to them like a burr when it’s not. Mario loves his friend, but he’s getting a bit peeved that any attempt he makes at hanging out with Marco ends with André wandering in only minutes later. It’s getting to the point where Mario is actually wondering whether Schü developed a sixth sense for locating them, until he realizes Marco must be the one to text him every time. 

That really stings, until Mario realizes that while Marco is using André almost like a chaperone, he’s making no attempt to actually distance himself from Mario. On the very contrary, he’s seeking Mario out constantly, sitting next to him at dinner and on the bus and practically attaching himself to Mario’s hip for training. They’re both on the bench for the friendly against Italy and it’s a good thing there’s no cameras around, because they spend almost the entire time making fun of their teammates, only sobering when anyone passes them by. 

They’re behaving like kids, who are finally seeing each other for summer camp again, but as much as Mario is enjoying that, he can’t stop himself from noticing that Marco is deflecting any of his attempts at a real conversation. And even knowing that the distance between them is mostly his own fault, Mario just can’t let that stand. He wants his best friend back, wants _all_ of him back, including whatever it is that makes Marco’s eyes go distant sometimes; the quietness whenever Mario tries to ask about the last few months in Dortmund. 

The flight to London is turbulent and any notions Mario entertained about cornering Marco go up in smoke when they all spend the entirety of the journey trapped in their seats, too many ears around them for him to ask his best friend what the hell is going on. It’s raining when they make it to the hotel and it takes a while to sort out the keys, so they’re all beat when they finally make it to the rooms. They’ll have a busy day tomorrow and Marco mutters something about getting an early start before disappearing into his room, leaving Mario torn between the wish to go after him and waiting for a better opportunity. 

Walking into Wembley again brings up all kind of unwanted memories and Mario knows he’s not the only one when he catches the tight look on Marco’s face as he glance around the stadium. Mario tries to distract him during warm-up and even succeeds, Marco looking a lot more cheerful by the time they line up on the pitch for the National anthems. Hearing that they’re both starting makes Mario so happy he doesn’t even pause to consider what that means and when Marco waits until Mario and Toni wish each other luck before coming up to him, Mario’s heart clenches painfully in his chest as he realizes he forgot. 

Marco saves him for last. It shakes him a little, that he could have forgotten about that already, their last game together only six months ago. He clings tightly to Marco as his best friend hugs him, trying to make up for something Marco isn’t even aware of. They exchange their fist bump, the one that’s reserved only for them and is a lot more simple than some of the others Marco came up with in collaboration with Nuri. 

The whistle blows and there’s no time left to contemplate anything as England throw themselves at them, honestly surprising all of them with the ferocity with which they attack. It takes them a while to gather themselves and it’s a good thing that Jérôme and Per are there, because their offense kind of sucks in the first thirty minutes, which Mario hates to admit to. He’s glad to be next to Marco again and they’re trying, but the team is new at this, playing together in this particular line-up for the first time. 

They get a corner though and five minutes before halftime Per picks it up from Toni, heading it into the goal and running across the pitch to drop down to his knees in celebration. Mario chases after him, glad that the defender chose this particular celebration as he comes up behind him to wrap his arms around his shoulders, Per nearly at the same height as he is even on his knees. The others come up to them and Marco smirks at him as they meet in the huddle, putting a sweaty hand on Mario’s chest that chases a thrill through him even surrounded by their teammates. 

Their attack gets better in the second half and Mario is practically glowing as he and Marco take over, bouncing off the other as they try and get some movement into their opponents’ defense. It’s like coming home in a way and though Mario loves his new team, he misses BVB something fierce when he sees Marco following him from the corner of his eye, reading Mario’s movement and picking up the slack almost effortlessly. They don’t score, but it’s close and as Marco gets subbed off a little before the end, he brushes past Mario with a regretful tug to the corner of his mouth, making it clear that he wanted it as much as Mario did. 

*

The last night of their stay they get pulled in for a final analysis, which is not as dull as it first sounds. For one thing, their team management rented the hotel’s glassed in roof terrace and once Löw is done talking about next year’s challenges they use a beamer to stream a couple of movies against one of the walls, everyone huddled together on the low couches and beanbag chairs. 

Schü leaves to get them food, only to return ten minutes later and find practically every seat taken, his face disgruntled as he drops the candy onto Mario’s chest. “Move over.” 

Mario, who is sharing one of the smaller couches with Marco, gives him an irritated look. “Where to exactly? Also, where are my fucking Twizzlers?”

“Didn’t have any,” Schü says and then he just shoves at Mario until he can insert himself into the small space between him and the arm rest. “Come on, _move_ , I’m not sitting on the armrest for three hours.”

“Why don’t you sit somewhere else,” Mario complains, even as he scoots closer to Marco to make room for Schü. “This is ridiculous.” 

Mario’s left side is pressed against Marco now, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, Marco’s elbow digging into his side uncomfortably. It’s closer than the two of them have been since the night of the Malaga game and Mario has to swallow as Marco’s warmth seeps into his side, the feel of him too familiar to be ignored. Mario _knows_ what it would feel like to shift even closer, to put his head against Marco’s shoulder and sling an arm over his stomach. He’s replayed it in his head too many times not to. 

Every single instance when he successfully ignored his physical longing for Marco in the last week is reduced to dust in sight of that and when Marco makes a distracted noise and shifts to extract his arm from in between the two of them, throwing it over the armrest instead, Mario has to swallow hard not to make an involuntary noise of pleasure. 

It’s hard to concentrate on the movies after that and Mario keeps his attention on the candy Schü brought them, eating jelly beans out of a paper bag, not without grumbling over the taste. “Why don’t you stop eating them then?” Schü asks after a while, exasperated and Mario feels more than hears Marco laughing next to him, the rumble of it vibrating through his entire body. 

“Because you didn’t bring me Twizzlers!”

“They didn’t have-“

“Schhhh.” Toni turns around and scowls at them until Marco throws one of their candy bars at him. 

“You can still get them tomorrow,” he remarks quietly and Mario sighs, rummaging through the bag of jelly beans, more to annoy Schü than because he really wants another one. “I guess.” 

“Don’t look up.” 

“What?” 

Marco puts the hand he practically has around Mario’s shoulders over his eyes. “I said don’t look. It’s the bug thing.” 

And so it is. Mario didn’t even pay much attention to the movie so far, but yeah, they’re watching _The Mummy_. Schü snickers at him, but Mario can’t even bring himself to care, not with the lingering sensation Marco’s of Marco’s fingers on his face. They show another movie and some of the guys stay even after that, talking in low tones as the clock creeps past midnight. But one hour later almost everyone has cleared out, including Schü. Mesut and Sami are the last to go, Mesut flicking at Marco’s head as they them by.

Mario keeps expecting for Marco to take his cue from one of the guys, but his best friend hasn’t moved so far, not even after Schü gave them back free reign over the couch. If Mario didn’t know any better, he’d think Marco is as reluctant to let him go as he is. Quiet falls around them as Mesut’s and Sami’s voices disappear around the corner, the beamer still throwing eerily blue flickering shadows against the wall in the otherwise dark room. 

“Good game,” Mario offers after a while and Marco hums, shifting against his side. 

“From you. I sucked.” 

Mario tips his head to the side to regard him. “Shut up. You did not.” 

“Yeah,” Marco insists. “I did. No big deal, it happens.” 

Mario frowns, ticked off all of a sudden. It’s the casual air with which Marco downplays his performance, the easy way he tears down a game in which at least Mario was beyond happy to have them playing together again. “Must be missing your new teammates.” 

It’s out before he can think better of it and Mario bites down on his tongue, cursing himself for being so transparent. Even if he picked a different way to word it, the tone would have given him away, sulky and prickly in a way even someone who doesn’t know him as well as Marco would be able to discern within a second. He can feel Marco looking at him and determinedly keeps his eyes on the wall ahead of them, strangely tempted to raise his hands and have shadows dance across it. 

“You mean Auba?” Marco asks and he sounds surprised. “I didn’t know you watched our games.” 

Mario shrugs, knowing Marco will be able to feel the movement. “You’ve been good. Really good, actually.” 

There’s an accusation in there and Mario knows he’s being unfair, feels Marco tense and wants to apologize. Marco is too quick for him though. “Yeah, it’s been grand.” 

His voice has grown acerbic and it riles Mario up as well, the apology that was on his tongue dissolving as the acid taste of anger fills his mouth. “Well, how the fuck should I know. After all, you apparently don’t fucking talk to me about that stuff anymore.” 

“Don’t,” Marco warns him, sitting up and shaking his head as he does. “Don’t even fucking go there.” 

“Why the _fuck_ not,” Mario counters, his own temper getting the better of him as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Every time I so much as try and ask about Dortmund, you find something else to talk about. What, now we’re not playing for the same club anymore I’m forbidden to know what went on with you and the others?” 

Marco is quiet for so long that Mario is starting to think he won’t answer at all. His voice sounds raw when he does. “You have some fucking nerve to complain to me about keeping secrets. What do you want me to say? That it was fucking horrible without you? Because it was. That I missed you every minute, every day after you were gone? Because I did. That it drove me crazy, wondering what you were up to, without even being able to talk to the one person I wanted to hear from? You have no fucking idea how much that hurt, Mario.” 

He’s breathing hard and looking away from Mario, who is too stunned to be able to do anything but sit there in silence, the meaning of Marco’s outburst only slowly making it through to him. He’s not sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this raw pain in Marco’s expression, or the way his voice faltered when he said Mario’s name. Not this obvious anguish at Mario’s absence. He puts a hesitant hand on Marco’s arm, relieved when his best friend doesn’t shake him off. His own voice barely rises above a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you _call_?” It’s something that’s been eating at him, even knowing he’s the last person allowed to ask that question.

Marco just shakes his head, his voice still thick with something Mario doesn’t dare to put a name to. He doesn’t look at Mario while he speaks. “I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.” 

It’s the most idiotic thing Mario has ever heard and yet Marco says it like it’s obvious, like the mere thought of Mario not wanting him in his life is completely and utterly unbearable. Something inside Mario keens at the raw emotion in Marco’s voice, his own matching it when he speaks. “I always want you to call. Always. Not talking to you this summer was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and there wasn’t a day I didn’t miss you, or didn’t want to talk to you, alright? Not one fucking day, Marco. Leaving you was ten times harder than leaving BVB and even though I don’t regret going, I still regret having to go without you.” 

Marco has finally turned to meet his eyes and he’s staring at Mario, something on his face that Mario can’t put a name to, but that makes his stomach flip just the same. “Mario…” 

There’s something heavy in the air around them now and Marco is still _looking_ at him, in a way that makes Mario want to squirm, but doesn’t allow him to tear his gaze away. He’s absolutely sure Marco is about to say something and his best friend even opens his mouth, but then something like a shadow crosses his face and he finally looks away, licking across his lips in an unconscious gesture that nevertheless causes a tingle to run down Mario’s back. 

“What did you mean?” he asks finally, when it becomes obvious that Marco will keep whatever he wanted to say to himself. “About me keeping secrets?” 

This time the shadow doesn’t just flicker across Marco’s face as it settles into the lines of his features, his jaw tightening as he shoots a glance towards Mario. “Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?” 

It’s like a gush of cold water and Mario has to struggle for a second to realize what Marco is talking about. Leon has been so far from his mind during the last week, preoccupied with seeing Marco again and trying to figure things out between them. For a few moments Mario wonders wildly how Marco could even know about Leon, it’s not like Mario shared it with- 

“Mats?” Mario guesses and sighs when Marco nods, his face closed off as he regards him. “That asshole. He wasn’t exactly supposed to go around and tell people.” 

“You told _him_.” There’s hurt in those words and Mario wants to pull his hair out, because honestly? How does he keep getting himself into these situations? There’s no way to convince Marco that Mario didn’t want to tell Mats in the first place. The only reason he did was to get Mats off his back about Marco and Mario can hardly cop to that, can he? 

“Which was obviously a mistake,” he finally says, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you. It just didn’t seem like something to bring up over text message and in case you hadn’t noticed, this is kind of the first time Schü hasn’t been with us the whole week.” 

The guilty look that crosses Marco’s face just confirms what Mario already suspected about his best friend being the one to drag Schü along every single time. But it’s gone in a flash and Marco frowns at him, obviously not satisfied by Mario’s explanation. Mario is starting to wonder why it even matters that much to him. 

“You could have said something when you called me last month.” 

Careful now. “Things were…still kind of uncertain back then,” Mario admits, because he has no idea what else to do. “We didn’t really put a label on it before.” It’s true, but given that he told Mats about him and Leon at least a week before that call took place, it’s bound to raise some questions for Marco. All Mario can hope is that Mats didn’t immediately tell him after getting back.

Marco doesn’t look suspicious as much as…resigned. Which makes no sense at all and Mario is still trying to gauge whether he’s read him wrong, but the expression on his best friend’s face disappears, giving way to something closer to unwilling curiosity. “You got a label for it now?” 

Marco is the last person Mario wants to talk to about this. Despite the fact that he’s the first person Mario wants to talk to about everything. “I guess you could say we’re in a relationship.” 

It’s a rather mild way of putting the commitment Leon has shown to him, but Mario can’t help but treat this subject with delicacy, even though he’s more than aware that it doesn’t hold nearly the same explosiveness for Marco as it does for him. He chances a careful glance at his best friend, whose face gives nothing away. It might be his way of trying to get Mario to talk and it’s working, the silence unnerving in such a way that Mario can’t help but try and fill it.

“I’ve known him a while. His parents live right next to my grandparents, you know? And I just ran into him in Munich a few months ago.” 

Marco nods and there’s a pondering look in his eyes as he meets Mario’s. “You like him then? He’s a good guy?” 

“He’s-“ _Not you._. “great,” Mario says and pretends that the thoughtful nod Marco gives him doesn’t make his chest twist painfully, the urge to reach out and touch him like a physical thing inside him, clawing to get to the surface. “You’d like him.” 

“I’m sure,” Marco says and there’s a twist to his mouth Mario can’t decipher, too busy with the ache in his heart to give it much thought. “Is he gonna be there next week?” 

Not if I can help it, Mario thinks, shuddering at the mere contemplation of what a meeting of his boyfriend and best friend might bring tumbling down at this point. Leon is still under the impression that Mario and Marco aren’t really talking after all. “No, I don’t think so. He’s got work anyway.” 

Marco smiles then and it’s Mario’s favorite, the crooked one that barely lifts the corner of his mouth. “Looking forward to playing in the best stadium in the world again?” 

Mario can’t keep the grimace off his face, unable to match Marco’s light tone as he thinks of returning to his former club and having to deal with the greeting he’s likely to receive by its fans. Marco’s smile falls and his tone grows gentle when he speaks. “Hey. It’s going to be okay, yeah?” 

Mario nods, knowing the forced smile won’t convince Marco of anything. His best friend knows him too well. Marco’s hand isn’t a surprise therefore and Mario does his best not to lean into the touch like an affection-starved puppy. “It will be,” Marco promises and it’s ridiculous, but Mario can’t help but believe him when he’s using that voice. “You’ll see. It won’t be as bad as you think.” 

*

But it is. At least he has time to prepare this time, gearing himself for the confrontation he’s been dreading ever since it became clear he’d be fit to play this game. Everyone seems to be concerned about him handling it, his teammates throwing encouraging words towards him more than once during training. Pep pulls Mario aside and talks with him for longer than he’s ever done before, asking Mario’s opinion on the probable tactic BVB will chose and listening with a slight frown on his face. 

The media is going crazy, publishing article after article and eventually their PR manager has Mario come in to prep him for any eventual interviews, though he’s advised not to say much of anything at all. Ann, Fabian and Leon walk on eggshells around him in the last two days before their departure to Dortmund and Mario gets fed up quickly, telling them to cut it out, since they’re only making him more nervous than he already is. 

The sight of Signal-Iduna in the dark pierces his chest and it only gets more pronounced when their bus pulls into the wrong gate, spilling them out into the entrance used for the guest team once they stop. Mario takes a deep breath before he climbs out, letting nothing show on his face as he walks into the catacombs with his earphones and backpack, trying to look like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

Walking through the corridors that are as familiar to him as his own living room is hard, but seeing everyone again is worse, having to witness how their eyes catch on the red color of his jacket and the crest over his heart each and every time. Still, he hugs Kehli and some of the managing staff before making his way onto the pitch for warm-up, taking a deep breath before he climbs the steps into the arena. 

He’s picked a good moment it seems, because no one notices him at first, Mario walking quickly across the grass to where some of his team has already gathered. Then Kevin spots him and Mario lets himself be pulled into a bone-crushing hug, enduring all the teasing remarks with a smile that he hopes doesn’t show how nervous he is. Kloppo is next and that one is hard, Mario having to swallow when his former coach pulls him in for a friendly hug, wishing him luck for the game. Like Mario’s starting. 

He doesn’t see Marco before the teams enter the pitch and maybe that’s a good thing, because even in the back row of the bench Mario’s heart tightens when he sees him in the yellow jersey, close enough to step over and touch and yet never further away than at that moment. The first half shows that both teams are reluctant to attack, trying to wait out the opponent and hope for a counter attack. Lewy has an excellent opportunity early on when Marco sets him up, but he misses and Mario can hear the _Süd_ sighing in disappointment, the thought of what that giant force is able to unleash making his skin crawl. 

His fears get confirmed when Pep nods at him and Thiago during halftime, telling them to get ready. The assistant coaches advise them to warm up in the tunnel and Mario only stares at them for a couple of heartbeats before nodding, the fierce regret that it has come to this adding to his nervousness. Thiago catches up to him and slings and arm around his shoulders in the tunnel, his voice low as he leans in to whisper in Mario’s ear. “You’ll be great.“ 

Mario nods and starts to warm up silently, aware that Thiago is still watching him. His friend is obviously displeased with Mario’s attitude, because he tries to make him laugh using ridiculous strategies, pulling faces as they jog past each other in the tight space of the tunnel. Mario manages a wan smile just to get him to stop, though he’s not sure how convincing it looks. 

Pep pulls Mario aside as soon as he walks back out, muttering last minute strategy towards him while Mario’s eyes are already scanning the pitch. His coach slaps his back and sends him towards the fourth referee and all of a sudden every eye in Signal-Iduna is on him, the roar of whistles echoing through the arena as he steps onto the pitch. Mario tells himself to stay calm even as the adrenaline shoots through him, his palms prickling where Mandzu slapped them as he came off. 

And then he doesn’t think about much of anything. He slots into their attack formation, Thomas, Arjen, Toni and he doing their best to get some disorder into his former team’s defense. To his own surprise there’s no disconnect when he tries to get past Mats or Neven, not even the sight of Marco making him miss a step as he runs across the pitch, the whistles louder every time he touches the ball. 

Thiago comes in for Jérôme and suddenly the ball is circulating even better, finding its way to Thomas, who drops it into the box from the right side. Mario can see Marco going down as he tries to intercept the pass, but he’s centimeters short and then the ball’s with Mario, only split seconds for him to get it under control and get his shot in, before BVB’s defense rushes him. He doesn’t need more than that. He brings the ball under control and hits it perfectly with the pike of his foot, his shot sailing past Roman and hitting the back of the net. 

Mario takes off before he can even think about what he’s doing, his blood rushing in his ears as he makes his way out of the crowd of yellow jerseys around him, avoiding their blank faces as he raises his hands almost like an apology. The whistles have stopped and the only noise in the arena is coming from the Bayern block, their approving roar loud in his ears as he tries to come up with an appropriate way to react to this. 

He doesn’t have to. It feels like ages to Mario, but in reality it can’t be more than a few seconds before Arjen reaches him, throwing an arm around Mario’s neck and pulling him close. Thiago’s there next and then Raf, Thomas, David, Philipp, Toni and Dante, forming a shield around him as they huddle close, throwing their arms around each other until Mario can’t see anything except the red of their jerseys. He can hear David yelling, riling up their fans to make even more noise and Thiago is taking his face in his hands, putting their foreheads together as he says something Mario can’t make out over the noise. 

It takes them a while to disperse, each of his teammates throwing in a hug or slap to the back before they take off, David lingering longer than anyone else as they walk back across the pitch. The whistles are more subdued afterwards and Mario can’t even find it in himself to take heart, a blankness taking over him that’s unsettling, if not unexpected. He scored against BVB. He scored against _his club_ , because no matter how much Mario wanted to go to Bayern, that’s still what they are. It doesn’t keep him from giving his best and their attacks work better now, everyone freed by Mario’s goal. They score twice more, Arjen and Thomas getting in their shots respectively. 

The result doesn’t entirely reflect how close the game really was and Mario feels his stomach sink when he sees his former teammates’ blank expressions afterwards, even though none of them push him away when he comes up to them. He doesn’t really linger with any of them, walking straight towards where Marco is undoing his laces, absorbed in his task in a way that tells Mario immediately just how upset he is. 

He touches his best friend’s back carefully and even though Marco’s expression is closed off when he straightens, he allows Mario to pull him close, patting his back gently as Mario’s hand lingers against the side of his face. It’s more than Mario hoped for and he walks away quickly afterwards, not wanting to stretch this painful moment longer than it has to be. 

Their locker room is noisy and a cheer goes around as Mario steps into the room, Thomas ruffling his hair as Mario slips past him to get into the shower. They all congratulate him and Mario smiles and lets them, his own relief at having performed as well as could be expected in his former hometown getting the better of him. He still gets ready in record time, grabbing his crumpled jersey from his spot on the bench before making his way across the hall. 

He actually knocks before going in, which seems absurd when he knows this door as well as the back of his own hand, knowing exactly how the paint at the bottom chipped off (Kevin tried to prove he could carry three cases of beer at once. He could not). Nuri is the one to open the door and to Mario’s endless relief, his friend’s face brightens as he pulls him through, everyone crowding around once they spot him. 

Lewy hugs him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, beaming at Mario as he high-fives him. Everyone else seems reasonably happy to see him as well, especially considering that Mario just considerably contributed to beating them. It’s wonderful and yet horrible all the same, seeing his space between Lewy and Kevin being taken up by one of the new guys and realizing that this is the only way he’ll ever be able to see this room and these guys from now on, a guest rather than part of their group. 

The bittersweetness of it lingers in his throat, but he tries to put on a brave face, making the rounds and even greeting the new guys with what he thinks is a good deal of nonchalance. Marco keeps in the background the entire time and only when Mario starts saying his goodbyes does he move, grabbing something from his locker and following him out into the hallway. 

There’s too many people there still and Marco nods towards one of the rooms the physios use and they slip through the door quickly, alone for the first time since they said their goodbyes at the hotel almost a week ago. Mario leans back against the wall next to the door with a sigh and Marco regards him critically, opening his arms for Mario to walk into a moment later. “Told you it wouldn’t be too bad,” he murmurs and Mario snorts wetly against his shoulder, catching on to the ruefulness in those words. 

He draws back before the urge to burrow into his best friend and just not leave wins out, pulling the crumpled jersey from where he had it tucked into his waistband. “Here. The one upside to not playing on the same team anymore.” 

“Getting your sweaty shirt? Aren’t I lucky,” Marco says drily. But he pulls off his own jersey and hands it to Mario, something wistful in his gaze as he watches him with the yellow fabric in his hands. 

There’s a knock on the door and a polite voice informs Mario that they’re about to leave for the bus. His heart clenches as he turns back to Marco, well aware that they won’t see each other for a while again. He wants to say something, but in the end he just ends up hugging Marco again, pressing his face against the flimsy fabric of the thermal undershirt his best friend is wearing and trying to remember the way Marco feels around him. 

“Hey,” Marco says before Mario can turn towards the door. “Stick out your arm.” 

Mario gives him a puzzled look, but does as he’s told, frowning when Marco pulls something crinkly from his pocket. His eyes go wide when he finally realizes what it is, fixed disbelievingly on his wrist, where Marco is busy tying the red string of candy around it. “When did you get these?” 

Marco snorts. “Before we left London. Figured I’d save them for now, in case you need cheering up.” 

Marco stares at his wrist, three Twizzlers wrapped around and knotted carefully and then looks at Marco. His heart is too fucking full for him to even say one word, but he thinks Marco knows, his eyes softening as he gives Mario a small smile and tucks the rest of the candy into Mario’s jacket, patting the pocket gently when he’s done. “Take good care of them, I had to smuggle them through customs.” 

When Mario drops down into his seat next to Jérôme five minutes later, his heart still hasn’t stopped aching in his chest and he throws on a bright smile for the picture David insists they take, putting on his earphones and watching their team mill around the dark parking lot before everyone climbs on board and they take off. As he watches Signal-Iduna disappear into the darkness, Mario raises his wrist to his mouth and bites through one of the candy strings, the sickly sweet taste making him feel better even as his heart keeps on beating painfully.

*

Everyone is still up when he unlocks the door to his apartment and to Mario’s surprise Leon is the first to greet him, his eyes sympathetic as he leans down to give him a kiss while Fabian and Ann hover in the background. Mario is too caught off his guard to do much of anything and it takes him a couple of second to put his arms back around Leon, stomach lurching sickly when he feels the cellophane of the Twizzlers crinkle in his pocket as his boyfriend holds him close. 

It turns out they watched the game here together and Mario lets himself be pulled to the couch, sinking down next to Lotte, who immediately puts her head in his lap and twists until he starts scratching behind her ears. The TV is still flickering, showing some round table where they’re discussing the game and Mario grimaces when his goal is replayed, the close-ups afterwards making him self-conscious in a way watching his performance otherwise never does. 

“Can we turn that off?” 

Fabian grabs the remote and changes the channel, cocking his head to regard him solemnly. “How are you doing?” 

Mario shrugs, feeling their eyes on him. “Alright I guess. Do we have any food?” 

Fabian nods. “Kitchen. Though your boyfriend insisted on Thai instead of Vietnamese.” 

“It’s _authentic_ ,” Leon argues and Mario gets up, because this is going to take a while and he’d much rather not get pulled into it. 

Ann follows him into the kitchen, watching silently as he shovels rice and pine-apple chicken onto his plate without much enthusiasm. “I thought you don’t like Vietnamese.” 

“I don’t,” Mario says, taking a bite nevertheless. “But I’m hungry and it’s almost two am. All my favorite places are closed.” 

“There’s leftover pizza,” she suggests, her nose scrunching up at the same time Mario’s does.

“I’ll pass. This is fine.” The pineapple is sickly sweet on his tongue, but he swallows it down anyway, opening the fridge to bastardize the whole thing with soy sauce. That ought to do the trick. 

Ann is still watching him when he puts his plate on the kitchen island, unscrewing the bottle of soy sauce. Mario raises an eyebrow at her as he pours. “What?” 

“You and Marco,” she says quietly and he almost drops the bottle. “Talking again?” 

He takes his time stirring the rice, before taking the soy sauce and putting it back in the fridge. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to, with International break and all.” 

He hopes she’ll leave it at that and to his own surprise she does, giving him a slight nod before jerking her head towards the living room. “Come on. Before those two try to cave each other’s heads in over take-out preferences.” 

*

There’s almost no time for Mario to settle back in, because they depart for Moscow a day later, the English weeks once again upon them as they travel to their next Champion’s League match. Moscow is freezing and it actually starts snowing while they’re warming up for the match, not even the thermal underwear keeping everyone from shivering as they hastily retreat to the heated locker rooms once they’re done. Mario starts the match and they’re doing well from the beginning, Arjen converting an assist from Thomas not even twenty minutes in. 

Thiago comes on a while later and ten minutes after halftime he gets the ball to Mario, who can’t seem to find anyone to receive a pass, so he just goes for it. He slips past three of CSKA’s players, circling a fourth one before getting his shot in and it sails straight past the goal keeper. David is with him first and then Thiago and the others catch up, forming a huddle that makes the cold bearable for the first time since they came on. 

They concede one goal from a penalty, but Thomas converts one as well and when Mario goes off two minutes before the final whistle to allow Julian his Champion’s League debut, Pep gives him a brief hug before bouncing back to the sideline to yell at the others. Afterwards they all make their way to the stands with their fans, hopping up and down to make up for the cold that has frozen the pitch nearly solid at this point. 

Thiago sees him shivering and opens his arms with a grin, laughing in delight as Mario burrows into his chest, squeezing him tight while his friend kisses the top of his head. “Aren’t you Germans supposed to be able to handle the cold?” 

“I like the sun,” Mario replies petulantly, reluctant to let go of Thiago. The man is like a furnace. 

They have fun at the banquet that night, everyone in good spirits after the headway they made against BVB last week and their position in their UCL group. Their flight doesn’t depart until the next evening and David, Jérôme and Mario use the remaining time to hit some of Moscow’s stores, buying more stuff than is probably strictly advisable for people who were only allowed one piece of luggage on the flight back. 

Mario buys a gigantic scarf on a whim and snaps a picture of it back in his hotel room, sending it to Marco without thinking. The call comes only a couple of minutes later. 

“You’ll drown in that thing,” Marco says instead of a greeting and Mario grins, settling back onto his bed and regarding the scarf fondly. 

“Shut up. It’s _cold_ here.” 

“You think everywhere is cold,” Marco snorts, which isn’t entirely untrue. Still, Mario isn’t going to just leave that undisputed.

“I saw a pigeon frozen to the sidewalk today,” he therefore says. “True story.” 

“You did not,” Marco replies and Mario can hear that he’s trying not to laugh, which makes him grin as well. “You’re just trying to make me feel sorry for you.” 

“Well, it _was_ dead,” he remarks, fiddling with the soft material of the scarf. “Congrats by the way.” They watched BVB defeat Naples two nights ago, Marco converting a penalty. 

“And you,” Marco says. “No need for the Twizzlers after all.” 

Mario hides his smile against the pillow he’s dropped onto, despite the fact that there’s no one but him in the room. “Still. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared. You watching Game of Thrones tonight?” 

It’s already queued on his SKY account, the hotel TV screen frozen on the intro. Marco snorts into his ear. “What else.” 

They watch it together, throwing in vague commentary now and then, almost like old times. Mario nearly falls asleep during the Greyjoy parts and that’s exactly like old times, including Marco making fun of him. He has to get ready in the afternoon, packing everything with his best friend still on speakerphone, wondering aloud where he left his toothbrush. It makes him nearly late for their departure date and the team manager throws him an admonishing look as he hurries onto their rented bus, but Mario still can’t make himself regret it.

*

The horrible thing is, he’s actually relieved to be away from Marco again. Without constantly seeing him, it’s a lot easier for Mario to try and ignore the fluttering in his stomach that would show up without fail every time he laid eyes on him during International break. Just talking to him on the phone seems cleaner somehow, his best friend’s presence reduced to a disconnected voice, no matter how soothingly familiar. 

And he needs that distance, now more than ever. Returning to Munich means returning to Leon and the guilt that has been eating away at him ever since Marco gave him those damn Twizzlers. Mario knows he should have told his boyfriend about him and Marco talking again by now. He does. But there never seems to be a right time to bring it up, both their schedules packed tight with the end of the season and Leon’s exams right before semester break. 

So he swallows the uneasy feeling when Leon smiles at guilelessly and affectionate as Mario gets back, promising himself that he’ll tell him after Christmas. When they both have time and he can actually think about how to word it to make it seem less of a deliberate attempt at misleading his boyfriend. It’s not like he cheated on Leon after all, despite the fact that he’s hid the Twizzlers with the hoodie and shirt in the bottom of his closet, like a guilty man trying to get rid of a piece of evidence. 

It’s not that easy though. The guilt clings to him like the torn strings of a spider’s web, its phantom touch there no matter how many times he tries to reason with himself that he didn’t do anything that would warrant this kind of regret. Leon knew he had feelings for Marco when they started their relationship and Mario is moving on, he _is_. The fact that Marco and he are friends again doesn’t mean Mario doesn’t still want to be with Leon. 

Being with his boyfriend is still the most comforting part of his day, both of them mostly hanging out on the couch or in Mario’s bed to recover from their work, Lotte’s walks pretty much the only occasions when they willingly leave the apartment. It’s nice to be able to drop into someone’s arms after the end of a grueling training session and Mario likes listening to Leon tell him all about the weird cases they had at the clinic that day, like the one about the cranky parrot and its even crankier owner that nearly took Leon’s head off for suggesting that feeding his bird fried chicken might be a tad unethical and also the cause for its indigestion. 

After the Braunschweig game, in which Mario assists Arjen with a header of all things there’s a week of respite until the game in Bremen next Saturday. Mario, determined to make the most of it, actually comes out to Leon’s band’s next gig at the tiny pub, spending the evening wedged in between his boyfriend’s friends and singing along to horrible Mumford and Son covers. He’s dead on his feet by the time he crawls into bed and the others tease him for the dark circles under his eyes the next day at training, but Leon looked so happy when he saw Mario show up and that’s what matters. 

The game against Werder turns into a celebration and they score seven times, Mario assisting and getting his own goal in to top it all off in the last second. There’s a tiny party on the bus afterwards, everyone more than happy to toast the _Herbstmeisterschaft_. They lose their game against Manchester at home three days later and Mario arrives home in a mood, despite the fact that he scored their second goal. Not even Leon’s story about a cat owner and his particular view of the correct way to measure its temperature can cheer him and he’s still mopey when Ann drops in, looking to celebrate finishing her final exam before the winter break. 

Leon hisses at her and Mario clucks disapprovingly, patting his boyfriend’s thigh. “We don’t say the e-word around here,” he informs Ann, who sticks her tongue out at the both of them before curling up in the armchair like a cat. 

“This reminds me,” Leon says, squeezing Mario’s waist before starting to get up. “I have to go.” 

“All-nighter?” Ann guesses and when Leon nods miserably she gives him a solemn salute, Mario feeling a bit excluded at the knowing glances they exchange. He’d like Leon to stay, but knows better by now than to ask. It’s not fair to his boyfriend anyway and as Leon has more than once pointed out, Mario doesn’t really get how intense a student workload can be. So he kisses Leon goodbye without complaint, returning to the couch afterwards to find that Ann has cracked open a bottle of wine, obviously settling in for the night. 

They watch TV for a while, some casting show that neither of them is overly interested in, though Ann groans when one of the contestants gets eliminated. Mario lets his head loll to the side to regard her, something occurring to him just then. “Are you free a week from now?” 

She frowns. “On Tuesday? I don’t think so. I have that thing with the record label, remember?” 

“Right,” Mario says, though he remembers no such thing. “Never mind then.” 

“Why? Are you in need of arm candy?” Ann teases, but Mario just shakes his head. 

“Nah. It’s the Christmas party thing the agency’s throwing. Not the fancy one, the one without press. I just thought you might like to come and get drunk with me.” 

“What about Leon?” she asks. “If it’s that low key, can’t you just bring him as your ‘friend’?” The air quotes lock even more mocking because of her manicured nails somehow. 

“He can’t,” Mario sighs. “His last exam is that day and they’re throwing some kind of ‘we survived the semester’ thing at his place afterwards.” 

She sits up at that, a frown line appearing between her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. “Well, that sucks.” 

Mario throws her a surprised glance. “He’s just busy is all.” 

“ _You’re_ busy,” Ann says firmly. “You’re travelling back and forth all over the place, yet you made time to come see his awful hippie band.” 

He really shouldn’t have told her about how awful they were, Mario thinks regretfully. And how can he explain to her that he’s not entirely unhappy about Leon missing that party, where there will be pictures, if no press. He’s still not sure he’s ready for any speculation, or even Leon’s name being attached to him that way. It sounds awful when he says it like that though, so he just shrugs, turning his eyes back to the screen. 

“It’s fine. And they’re not that bad.” 

“You said you were afraid your ears might start bleeding,” she counters. “You’re being awfully accommodating towards him lately. Didn’t you have training the next day?” 

“So?” Mario says, getting uncomfortable with the direction this is taking. He can’t very well admit that Leon has been the one accommodating him so far and that Mario has thanked him for that by keeping secrets. 

“What about the food thing?” Ann says suddenly and he blinks at her, because what? 

His confusion must be evident, because she rolls her eyes impatiently. “He _never_ gets you what you want, he always pushes his vegetarian crap on you. Vietnamese? You hate Vietnamese!” 

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Mario asks, honestly baffled now. He resolutely pushes away the part of him that feels more than a prick of unease at her words. “Why do you care what kind of food we get?” 

“It’s not the food, it’s an example of a bigger pattern.” Her eyes are boring into him now and Mario has to fight not to fidget underneath it. “What about the whole moving back to Memmingen thing when you’re retired?” 

“What about it?” Fuck, he’s never telling her anything ever again. 

“That’s what you want? To move back to the town you were born in, play house with Leon while he opens a practice there? Just the two of you and three billion dogs?” 

“What’s wrong with that?” Mario snaps, her words hitting a sore spot he didn’t even know existed. 

She scoffs at him. “Nothing. Except it’s not really you, is it?” 

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, come on, Mario. You’re a city guy. Maybe you weren’t back then, but you are now. You like having fancy restaurants nearby to go to and you’re not into all this nature crap! You own seven types of black skinny jeans and none of them are made to be taken on dog walks!”

Mario is wondering where this conversation derailed so badly that he has struggle keeping up with it now. “What are you talking about? I love Lotte. And it’s not like we’d be moving there tomorrow, that’s stuff we have to worry about like ten years from now on!” 

“It’s not about whether or not you like your boyfriend’s dog,” Ann sighs. “But don’t you think the two of you should be talking about this kind of stuff, since you’ve apparently abandoned the idea of taking it slow?”

And now Mario is getting really pissed. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you want to say, Ann?” 

She bristles at the sharpness in his tone, straightening in her chair. “You were awfully quick to jump into this relationship. And it seems to me like you’re making a lot of concessions for the sake of that relationship.” 

“Concessions like eating Vietnamese food you mean?” Mario asks derisively, his chest tightening in anger, making it hard to breathe. “I can’t fucking believe you. _You_ were the one who told me to get out and move on with my life. What, now that I’m actually doing it, you’re not on board anymore? I thought you liked Leon!” 

That last part comes out almost betrayed and she winces, regret flickering across her features. “I do like Leon,” she says quietly. “Mario, you know I do. I think he’s great. But I also think you rushed into this. And I know what I said back then and maybe I shouldn’t have, but. You needed a push and I thought dating him might help you.” 

“It _did_ help me,” Mario states, as calm as he can with his temper flaring brightly beneath his skin. “I’m fucking happy with him, whatever the hell you might think.” 

Her eyes are very serious when she looks at him then. “As happy as you were with Marco?” 

Mario flinches back as if she slapped him, feeling the color drain from his face and adrenaline fill his blood. “ _Fuck_ you,” he says thickly, the words out almost on instinct, fury lighting every part of his body on fire. “Fuck you, Ann, don’t you fucking dare throw that in my face.”

“Why not?” she asks and there’s anger in her voice now, too, sharpening her words. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

“You’re a lot of things right now,” Mario snaps, his voice rising in volume as he talks. “Full of shit being one of them. You fucking hated Marco, you never left out an opportunity to tell me that!”

“Yes! He was a fucking douchebag and I still think you could do a million times better, but at least he made you happy!” she yells back, her eyes blazing as she flicks her hair out of her face impatiently. “At least with him you didn’t feel the need to constantly bend over backwards to make it work!” 

“Make what work exactly?” Mario snaps. “We were never in a relationship! He never wanted me that way!” 

It still hurts to say that out loud and it makes him even angrier at Ann for forcing those thoughts to the surface again, furious at her need to constantly meddle in his relationships. Keeping himself in check when he’s that angry has never been Mario’s strong suit and it doesn’t work now either, hot bile carrying the next word to his tongue. “Where do you get off talking to me about Leon anyway, when you’ve been fucking my brother for the past couple of months?” 

The words have their intended effect, Ann blanching as her expression grows furious and then very cold, almost expressionless. She gets up without a word and Mario stays right where he is, trying to get his breathing back under control as he listens to the front door slam shut a few seconds later. 

*

The last game before the winter break is against Hamburg and they win it comfortably, if not brilliantly. Mario gets in another goal and grins at David and the others when the Allianz screams out his name afterwards. His start at Bayern may have been rocky, but he’s been on the right track for a while now. They have a small get together at Säbener before they head into the break and David gets a bit smashed and hangs onto Mario’s arm the entire time, telling him how glad he is that Mario transferred. 

Ann hasn’t talked to him since their fight five days ago and Mario is glad, his own anger at her still flaring brightly when he so much as thinks about the things she said. It’s a good thing Fabian left for Dortmund yesterday. Mario felt bad pretending like nothing was wrong, even though Ann had obviously done the same thing. At least his brother made no attempt to yell at him, which he very likely would have done, if Ann told him what Mario said to her about the two of them.

Leon is studying 24/7 and Mario takes care of Lotte for a couple of days while his boyfriend crams for one of his exams, taking her out into the park and throwing sticks and her ball for her until his arm aches. The temperatures have dropped below zero days ago and the entire city is covered in a thick layer of snow, which Lotte finds fascinating and Mario rather tiresome since he has to towel her down every time they enter the flat, wiping the worst of the snow of her paws, which still leave prints all over his floors. 

Christmas is everywhere and Mario spends one horrible afternoon pushing his way through the masses to get presents for everyone, the celebrations at his grandparents’ house looming closer, almost exactly a week from now. He has to sit down and take a break at his favorite coffee place around the corner once he’s done, but seeing all the wrapped gifts stacked on the dresser in his bedroom, he has to admit it’s nice to be finished ahead of time.

The agency’s Christmas party is a day later and Mario seriously thinks about not going, the air outside already filled with drifting snowflakes again, the ground completely frozen. In the end it’s Jérôme who convinces him to come, praising the generous distribution of alcohol and general low keyness of the event, very unlike the official agency parties thrown for the press. Mario gives in, mostly because he’s never gone before and to get Jérôme off his back. 

Toni and Jérôme are already there when he makes it to the restaurant the agency rented for the night, pushing his way through the thick crowd to get to their corner booth. He’s happily surprised to find that the partygoers consist almost entirely of agency staff and their families, no one taking an interest in the few players that are scattered throughout the room. “Told you,” Jérôme tells him smugly and they clink their glasses, the novelty of for once not feeling watched incredibly welcome as they sit back and relax. 

Mario is well into his second glass of Radler when someone slides into the booth next to him, sitting way to close for comfort. He’s about to snap at whoever is mistaking his personal space for an invitation to get comfortable and stops in his tracks when Marco grins at him with an expression that is way too pleased. Mario blinks, wondering whether the little beer he’s had is getting to him, but Marco is still sitting there and his smirk has grown into a full on grin, eyes crinkling as he regards Mario while Jérôme and Toni crack up across the table. 

“Surprise,” Marco says and Mario punches his best friend’s shoulder hard enough that he’s rather certain there will be a bruise later, although he can’t prevent his own smile from spreading across his face. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“This is my agency, too, you know,” Marco says, raising the bottle he’s brought along in a nonchalant manner and taking a sip. “I just stayed down South after our game with Hoffenheim.” 

That game was two nights ago and Mario shakes his head, still unable to take his eyes off Marco. He knows he’s smiling like a fucking idiot, but there’s no helping it, not with Marco sitting right next to him, wearing that satisfied expression. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” 

“And ruin the surprise? Jérôme knew anyway,” Marco laughs, trying to evade the next punch Mario aims at his arm. “If I’d known you’d get so violent about it, I might have considered telling you though.”

“He’s a scrapper,” Toni agrees fondly, flicking one of the coasters at Mario. “The other day he took Daniel down in training. That man still has the bruise.” 

“He was in my way,” Mario says, grinning when he feels Marco’s laughter rumble through him where they’re pressed up against each other. 

It’s a good night from there on out. Neither Marco nor Mario keep drinking after the first couple of beers, although Jérôme calls them all ninnies and throws back three shots that have him looking vaguely sick for ten minutes afterwards. They reminisce about the National Team and indulge in wild daydreams about Brazil and all the ways they’re going to own that tournament next year. 

Marco keeps close to Mario’s side, the long line of his best friend’s body pressed into his, arm thrown across the back of the booth as he leans into Mario, close enough for him to be able to see the golden shimmer of Marco’s stubble. Mario knows he shouldn’t enjoy it so much, should put some distance between them to be able to think clearly again, Marco’s presence affecting him twice as much as the alcohol did. It’s what causes everything to unravel and Mario wonders later on, what the hell might have happened, if Marco had just decided to sit on the other side of the booth when he arrived. 

There’s no use to these sort of hypotheticals however, because Marco is still sitting there when Jérôme’s eyes widen, his expression growing pleased as he waves someone over. Mario somehow knows before he even turns and spots Leon. His heart plummets into his stomach as he sees his boyfriend making his way over to them, curls still slightly damp from the snow outside and he witnesses the exact second Leon sees him and Marco, sitting so close together that not even a sheet of paper would fit between them. 

Their eyes meet and Mario knows instantly that there will be no way to talk himself out of this, no possible explanation he might give that would have his boyfriend believe his and Marco’s reunion only came about tonight. The expression on Leon’s face is one of the worst things Mario has ever seen and he can’t even do anything, watching silently as his boyfriend approaches their table, nodding to Jérôme and Toni, who both greet him cheerfully. 

Neither of them seems to have realized that the situation is off, Leon rallying as he plasters a smile onto his face and Mario still unable to say a word, his mind almost blank as he tries to understand just how badly this is going to go. Marco though. Marco catches on immediately. He probably felt the way Mario stiffened next to him when he spotted Leon. So of course he’s also the one who tries to defuse the situation, sticking out his hand for Leon to shake. 

“Hey. I’m Marco. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Complete lie. Mario never told him anything, except the bare minimum back in London and maybe Leon senses it, too, because his smile grows hard as he shakes Marco’s hand. “I just bet you have.”

“Leo-“ Mario hears his own voice as if it’s far away and even so, the pleading tone is obvious. 

“I’m going to get myself a drink,” Leon mutters, turning away without looking at Mario. Now even Jérôme and Toni have cottoned on that something isn’t quite right here, their expressions hesitant as they glance over at Mario, who has finally managed to jerk himself out of his daze. He pushes at Marco’s shoulder until his best friend lets him get up, his hand on Mario’s arm as he tries to go past him. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Mario says, not really hearing him. He has to find Leon. 

The crowd seems even thicker than before and Mario shoves his way through without pausing to apologize, desperate to find his boyfriend. When he finally makes it to the bar, Leon is already paying for his beer, his expression stiffening when he sees Mario. “Just don’t.” 

“Leo,” Mario says desperately, grabbing onto his boyfriend’s sleeve. He’s briefly thankful for the low lighting and thick crowd that lends them at least a little privacy. “At least let me explain.” 

Leon looks at him then and the sheer _hurt_ in his eyes makes Mario take a step back, hitting him low in the gut. “I don’t think there’s a lot left to explain, Mar.”

The words are like being shoved into freezing water, Mario’s entire body growing cold and numb, his grip on Leon loosening almost instinctively. Leon puts the bottle he barely took a sip out of on the counter again and then he’s gone, Mario standing there frozen for a couple of seconds, before he gathers his wits enough to go after him. 

He catches up to Leon in the deserted parking lot, skidding across patches of frozen ice and cursing the way he’s starting to shiver almost immediately, whether from the adrenaline or cold he doesn’t know. “Leo, wait!” 

Leon stops so suddenly that Mario almost collides with him, grabbing his boyfriend’s arm to steady himself as he whirls around to face Mario. “How long have you been lying to me about this?” 

It’s not an unfair question. But it still hurts and Mario has to glance away from the betrayal in Leon’s eyes while he answers, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “I called him when we were in Memmingen.” 

“Oh my God,” Leon says faintly and then he laughs, a brittle sound that is somehow worse than everything else that’s happened so far. “Of course you did.” 

“Leo-“ 

“So the way you’ve been acting in the past couple of months,” his boyfriend says, his voice almost dazed as he stares through Mario like he doesn’t even see him. “Being all happy, finally coming around on some of the stuff we talked about. That wasn’t about us at all, was it? It was about _him_. God, I’m such an idiot.” 

“What? _No_!” Mario grips Leon’s arm even tighter, the desperation to make Leon understand like a wild thing inside him. “You’ve got this all wrong, Leo, please, can’t we talk about this, let me just-“ 

“I can’t talk to you right now,” Leon says and his voice sounds so _wrong_ , hollow and devoid of any of its usual warmth and humor. “I think I need to go home.” 

“No,” Mario says, trying to make it sound like he’s stating something instead of pleading. “You have to let me explain, please, Leo-“ 

“No.” 

It all happens very fast then. Leon pulls his arm out of Mario’s grip, too forceful for him to keep his balance and he takes a step back, his foot coming down on one of the patches of ice he tried to avoid earlier. Mario falls on his ass rather disgracefully, Leon’s expression growing surprised and the regretful as he leans down to lend him a hand. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Mar, are you-“ 

“Get your fucking hands off him!” 

Mario closes his eyes. His pants are getting soaked sitting on the ground like this, his tailbone hurts like hell, his pride even worse. And yet that voice is still the worst thing he can imagine in that very second. This can’t be _happening_. “Marco-“ he croaks, trying to get up and slipping on the ground again. 

His best friend isn’t even looking at him as he steps closer, eyes furious where they’re fixed on Leon. “If you lay one more finger on him-” 

“You’ll do what exactly?” Leon challenges and Mario wants to groan, because this is too much. He wants out, this entire situation is fucking ridiculous. 

What happens next is entirely predictable. Marco’s shove makes Leon stumble backwards before he recovers and grabs onto Marco, the two of them grappling in the awkward fashion of two people who have never fought beyond the confines of a schoolyard. The blow Leon lands on Marco’s face is therefore entirely coincidental, but that doesn’t make it less spectacular, Marco rearing back and raising a hand to his face as blood runs from his nose. 

The entire thing lasts no more than a few seconds, already over by the time Mario has scrambled up, banging his knee painfully on the frozen asphalt while trying to climb to his feet. He catches Marco by the shoulders, grabbing onto his jacket to help him stay upright and raising one hand to his best friend’s face on instinct, trying to pull Marco’s hand away to assess the damage. It doesn’t look that bad apart from the blood, but then again it wouldn’t, so quickly after the blow. 

Marco is breathing harshly and looking kind of dazed and Mario hopes to hell he doesn’t have a concussion. At least his nose doesn’t look broken, though there’s no way to tell with the blood obscuring half of his vision. He uses his sleeve to wipe some of it away, grabbing onto Marco’s chin with the other hand to make him hold still. 

It takes him a couple of seconds to realize the eerie silence and when he glances over, Leon is standing only a few meters away, staring at them with an expression that is so brokenhearted that it makes Mario want to take a step towards him instinctively. He realizes then what a sight he makes, practically cupping Marco’s face as he attempts to wipe the blood from his chin. Mario shakes his head, tries to pour every ounce of regret he feels into his voice when he speaks. “Leo-“ 

“Don’t call me.” Leon’s voice is hollow and he turns away quickly, Mario unable to follow him as he holds onto an unsteady Marco, watching Leon disappear into the darkness with a helplessness that threatens to swallow him whole. 

*

“Mario-“ 

“Shut up.” His knuckles are turning white where he’s grabbing the steering wheel and he keeps his eyes on the road, even though he can feel Marco looking at him from where he’s slumped in the passenger seat of Mario’s car, still holding the handkerchief to his nose that Mario filled with ice from the parking lot. 

The roads are hard to navigate and Mario has to go slow, the thin layer of snow on top of the frozen ground making the car skid every now and then, despite its all-wheel drive. It’s the perfect excuse not to look at Marco, to concentrate on this one thing ahead of him instead and not allow his mind to stray anywhere but the task of getting them to Mario’s apartment safely. He suggested the hospital at first, but Marco was so against that that Mario eventually gave in, his own nerves too frayed to make much of an argument. 

The part of him that isn’t dead set on getting them there as safely as possible is screaming at him, raging for letting Leon walk away, berating him for not going after his boyfriend immediately. Except that Mario is pretty sure that he doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore. He saw Leon’s face when he looked at him and Marco. That resigned expression that was somehow worse than the hurt and betrayal from before, because it contained something else entirely. Something that told Mario that Leon had somehow expected this, deep down. 

His mind still jerks away from that idea, the implication too horrible for him to even think about. Instead he tells Marco to be quiet when his best friend tries to talk to him and maybe Marco finally hears how close to the edge Mario is teetering, because he gives up, the rest of the ride passing in silence as Mario maneuvers his car through the deserted streets of a city that is slowly being engulfed in a thick layer of snow, the flakes drifting down faster now. 

His apartment is warm and immediately cozy when Mario flicks the lights on, leading Marco into the kitchen by his elbow and taking the handkerchief away from him as he gets some ice from the freezer instead. Marco grimaces as he presses it against his nose, but there isn’t much visible damage, only a slight redness from the continued application of the ice. Mario still goes to retrieve his first aid kit, getting the drops his doctors gave him for his continued nosebleeds and shoving them at Marco when he returns. 

His best friend washes his face in the sink before he takes them, mouth twisting at the bitter taste as he leans back against the kitchen island, watching Mario. “Are we going to talk about this?”

“No,” Mario says curtly, because if he has any choice in the matter he won’t even be thinking about this. He needs to call Leon, needs to find out where he is and try and go talk to him, otherwise-

“I think we should though,” Marco says and he sounds angry now. Mario hasn’t got any patience left to deal with that, he really doesn’t. “I think we should talk about how that fucking asshole _shoved_ you-“ 

“He didn’t shove me,” Mario interrupts him, hysterical laughter bubbling to the surface and almost getting the better of him. Of all the ridiculous things Marco could have said, painting Mario as some poor victim really takes the cake. “I slipped and fell on my ass.” 

“Didn’t look like that from where I was standing.” 

“I don’t fucking care what it looked like!” Mario snaps. “What were you even doing there in the first place? You had no fucking right to follow me!” His mind keeps replaying the what-ifs, trying to come up with a scenario in which Leon wouldn’t have left him standing there, the smoking ruins of a relationship he’s tried to keep going for almost five months now strewn around him. 

“You were upset,” Marco says and _he_ looks upset, the icepack set aside as he stares at Mario. “He behaved like an asshole right from the start, so I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“He’s _not_ an asshole,” Mario spits, because amidst everything, he can’t have Leon be the one to take the blame for this situation. “You don’t even know him, Marco! Do me a fucking favor and shut up about this!” 

“Yeah, he’s swell,” Marco retorts coolly, his sarcastic drawl fanning the fury Mario already feels, all the muscles in his body coiled and ready to strike. “Treating you like shit, because he sees you sitting close to some guy and running out on you after physically assaulting-“ 

“Shut up!” Mario yells, because he can’t. This entire situation is getting out of hand and he just wants to be gone, wants Marco not to be here, to be able to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head and pretend this night never happened. His voice is devoid of any strength all of a sudden, his chest feeling like someone has closed a vice around it. “Just, please, shut up. He doesn’t deserve how I treated him, this is not his fault.”

“ _How_ is this your fault?” Marco cries and he looks so fucking earnest, green eyes wide and his hair falling into his forehead in that disheveled way that has never once not made Mario want to reach out and push it back. 

Mario feels so tired. It’s been three years. Too long to be in love with someone so desperately. Robert’s birthday and everything that followed it was more than a year ago now and it feels like eons have passed since then, Mario folding under the weight of the time and effort it took to try and move on from the fallout. Four months of not talking to Marco. Two months of having him back, except not really. He’s so fucking _tired_. So he makes a decision. 

“I’m in love with you. And I lied to him about it. He has every right to be mad at me.” After all this time the words come almost easily, although no weight lifts off his shoulders as he says them like he kind of expected. His tone is surprisingly steady, almost matter of fact and Mario even manages to look at Marco afterwards, forces himself to with the kind of steely determination people must use when they’re asked to identify their loved ones after an accident. 

This is kind of similar, Mario thinks detachedly as he sees the blood drain from his best friend’s face, his already pale complexion growing white as a sheet as he stares back at Mario, clearly struck speechless. Only instead of a corpse it’s their friendship‘s death he has to bear witness to, the dull hurt that takes over him still not keeping him from speaking. Not keeping him from trying to explain, even though he knows it’s a lost cause. 

“I’m sorry. I never should have kept that from you. I know that’s not much use to you now, but I never wanted anything to happen between us. You took me by surprise and then,” he swallows hard against the lump in his throat, his voice growing ragged, because even thinking about everything that happened between them is hard, even after all this time. “Then I couldn’t make myself stop, never mind tell you. I know that was wrong, I know you didn’t want the same things from me and I know what we said at the beginning, but I just couldn’t-“ he breaks off, finally tearing his eyes from Marco’s white face. “I’m sorry.” 

Marco’s steps seem entirely too loud when he moves and Mario startles when it becomes clear Marco isn’t going for the front door like he half-expected him to, but closing in on Mario, crowding him up against the counter. For a split second Mario is absolutely sure that Marco is going to punch him and maybe that’s why the kiss takes him so utterly by surprise, his mind stuttering to a halt as Marco kisses him, completely unresponsive until he recovers enough to put his hands on Marco’s chest and shove him back. 

“I can’t,” he says and the naked desperation in his voice scares him, his mind spinning as he stares at Marco imploringly. He needs him to _understand_. “I can’t do this again. Marco, I can’t be with you knowing this won’t ever amount to anything, it almost killed me the last time. You have no idea what it was like to almost have what I wanted, no idea how much losing you hurt and I just can’t. I can’t do it again, so can you please just go?”

But Marco doesn’t move, his eyes strangely bright as he looks at Mario. “Are you done?” 

Mario blinks at him. “I-“ 

“Good,” Marco interrupts him fiercely, taking Mario’s face in his hands until he has to look at him. “Because I’ve been trying to tell you this for almost a year now. And I need you to _hear me_ this time. It’s you, okay? It’s always _been_ you, ever since I kissed you that first time. You’re _it_ for me. And I’m not going to make the same mistake again, so I’m telling you now. _It’s you._ ” 

When Mario was ten or so, he and his brother had this mechanical little soldier that you could wind up and let walk across the surface of a table. His parents hated that thing, but the three of them loved it, the little soldier almost always finding its way into their luggage even on holiday trips. During one of those trips Felix dropped it into the lake they were camping by and even though the soldier worked just fine at first after their mom put it into a bowl of rice overnight, after a while his gait became jerky, the tiny figurine lurching along almost comically. Probably rust, their father had said and not sounded very unhappy about it. 

Mario’s mind feels like that little mechanical soldier now. It’s still working, somehow, lurching along bravely, despite the fact that something has unsettled its machinery, thrown a wrench in somewhere that’s supposed to be working smoothly. He heard what Marco said. He even understands, kind of, what it means. But his mind is still grasping to align what it knew until a minute ago with the new information it’s been given and failing miserably.

He opens his mouth, with no idea as to what he’s going to say and somehow, what comes out is: “But you want kids.” 

Marco laughs then, a breathless, almost giddy sound as his thumbs stroke across Mario’s cheekbones, his palms so fucking warm against his face. “Sunny,” he says and his voice almost breaks on the word. “Did it ever occur to you that I might want them with you?” 

The mechanical soldier takes another lurching step and Mario can only stare at Marco, who is smiling as widely as Mario has ever seen him, his eyes bright and brimming with joy. “It’s okay, I know you don’t believe me yet. That’s fine.” 

Mario wants to protest, wants to say he knows Marco isn’t lying, his voice laying bare just how serious he is. But Marco isn’t wrong either, so he stays silent, struggling with the words to come up with anything but the stunned silence he’s been thrown into. Marco tips his head up gently, doesn’t let go of Mario’s face as he forces him to look at him again. “I don’t need you to believe me right now. I’ll make you believe it, I’ll prove it to you. Every single day for the rest of our lives, if that’s what it takes. But you have to let me, Sunny.”

There’s no answer that Mario could ever come up with that would encompass the entirety of what he’s feeling just then, so he just grabs the front of Marco’s shirt and kisses him. And there’s no describing the feeling when Marco kisses him back either, even if Mario kept trying for the rest of his life. 

It’s like coming up for air after a lifetime under water. It’s like feeling the first drops of water on your tongue after wandering a desert wasteland. It’s like coming home, like fireworks and like sliding into a hot bath after a walk out in the cold. It’s all of that and yet not even close to what he feels as Marco pushes him back and slides his tongue into his mouth, the smell, taste and feel of him so familiar and perfect that it makes Mario want to cry. 

He _knows_ this, knows every single touch and how it feels, Marco’s hands sliding to his waist and pulling him in closer, his tongue sliding against Mario’s as he licks into his mouth, stubble scraping against Mario’s chin. Every inch of him is familiar and yet new as Mario puts one hand onto his chest, the other one tangling in Marco’s hair as he pulls him in closer, the soft feel of the thick strands between his fingers like a whisper of silk. They barely part for air before Marco brushes their lips together again, short pecks followed by a long lingering kiss that’s so hungry Mario is half-hard by the end of it. 

They’re pressed too close together for Mario not to notice that Marco isn’t faring any better and when he slides his hand down to cup him through his skinny jeans, Marco groans into his mouth, breaking the kiss to lean his forehead against Mario’s. “Stop,” he gasps out. “Unless you want me to come right here, just stop.” 

Mario laughs giddily, moving in to kiss him again, as dirtily as he knows how, his hand squeezing once before he pulls it back, Marco’s curses like music in his ears as his best friend grabs him and pulls him from the kitchen. Both of them nearly trip over the small side table in the hallway in their haste to get at each other again, Marco pressing him up against the wall and kissing him breathless again, hands already creeping beneath Mario’s sweater and thin shirt underneath. 

Mario finally manages to get a good hold on Marco’s belt and starts walking backwards after extracting himself, pulling Marco along as he opens the door to his bedroom with a kick of his heel. The blinds are open and there’s light spilling in from the street, though they’re up high enough to see the tree tops. Neither of them makes a move to switch on the lights. Marco steps in close and puts his hands on Mario’s hips, walking him backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed while he kisses Mario again.

Mario doesn’t have the patience to undress Marco, just flicks his belt open and draws down his jeans until he can close his mouth around his cock, hands grabbing onto the back of Marco’s thighs to keep him still where he’s standing between Mario’s legs. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no moment of reverence to contemplate that more than half a year has passed since he last did this with Marco. Mario’s need is too great, the desperation to feel Marco against him clawing beneath his skin like a wild animal waiting to be released from its cage. 

Marco’s hand in his hair is almost feathery as he strokes Mario’s head, his breath coming in harsh, uncontrolled gasps as Mario swirls his tongue around him, pulling off when he can feel the muscles of Marco’s stomach tense. He shifts backwards to crawl fully onto the bed, never losing eye contact with Marco as he starts to undo his own jeans. Marco is on top of him in a flash, slapping his hands away as he undoes Mario’s buttons and zipper himself, divesting him of his jeans and underwear quicker than Mario could have ever hoped to manage. 

Kissing him again, Marco shifts to move between his thighs and Mario stretches to reach his nightstand, Marco taking the opportunity to shove up the sweater and t-shirt he’s still wearing to kiss Mario’s belly while he gropes around for the condoms and lube. Marco’s lips and tongue make it hard to concentrate on anything and Mario nearly throws the condom he finally gets a hold of at his head, fumbling with the lube himself until Marco takes it from him. 

Mario doesn’t resist, just lets his head fall back against the mattress and bites down on his tongue as Marco slips two fingers into him, counting down from ten to keep from coming right then and there. Maybe Marco senses how close he is. He always had an eerie sense of being able to read even the minutest change in Mario’s body language and this is not minute, his back stiffening and cock twitching as his nerves catch on fire, pleasure making him dizzy as he rolls his head to the side to regard Marco, the most beautiful sight possible. 

He keeps breathing slowly while Marco slicks him, concentrates on the way the air rushes in and out of his lungs. When Marco withdraws his fingers he can’t keep back the involuntary gasp, Marco shushing him as he moves to lie between his thighs, the crinkle of the condom wrapper incredibly loud in the silent air around them. 

Marco moves in close as he lines himself up, close enough for Mario to wrap his arms around his shoulders and wait for him to bury his face in the crook of Mario’s neck, to kiss his pulse point before starting to push inside. And then it’s too much, the smell and feel of Marco above him, _inside_ of him overwhelming and pushing Mario over the edge before Marco is even finished sliding into him. His orgasm washes through him and it tears a surprised little noise from Marco as Mario clenches around him, his hips jerking as if of their own accord. 

Mario blinks, only slowly coming out of the endorphin rush his orgasm threw him into. When he realizes, cataloguing the tell-tale signs of the slumped line of Marco’s shoulder and the way his breath hitches, all he can do is pull Marco close and kiss him blindly, waiting until he’s finished shuddering through his own orgasm, pulled from him entirely too soon just like Mario’s was. It takes Mario a couple of seconds to come to terms with the fact that neither of them lasted more than ten seconds and it strikes him as hilarious all of a sudden, laughter making his chest shake as he tries to suppress most of it. 

“Shut up,” Marco mutters into his neck, voice still thick with desire. “That was your fault.” 

Mario doesn’t try and keep back his laughter then, digs his fingers into Marco’s hair as he wraps his legs around Marco’s hips to keep his softening cock from slipping out. “Sorry,” he says, though he’s anything but and Marco snorts against his neck, the sound of amusement muffled against the sweat-slick skin there. His weight is resting almost entirely on Mario and there’s something grounding about it, something that makes Mario whine in protest when Marco tries to roll off. 

“I’m crushing you,” Marco mumbles, but Mario just shakes his head, unable to voice why he needs this just then, his feeling of possibly floating away if Marco moves sticking unarticulated at the back of his throat. Marco seems to get it anyway, staying exactly where he is and only lifting his hips a bit to get the condom off once he completely softens and slips out of Mario. 

They stay like that, clinging onto one another and trading lazy kisses until both of them are hard again, Marco grabbing a pillow to shove underneath the small of Mario’s back before he slips between his thighs. It's unhurried this time around, the immediate urgency gone for now. Marco barely moves once he’s pushed inside, rolling his hips in slow, sensuous circles, Mario meeting him halfway each time, the only sound their breath in the air. 

Marco draws it out, slowing every time either of them shifts too close to the edge. Mario can’t stop touching his face, stroking the sweat-dampened locks from Marco’s forehead when he’s leaning down to kiss Mario again and again, like he’s just can't stop himself. It’s _so_ good and Mario doesn’t ever want it to stop, wants to keep the two of them in this perfect bubble they created, adrift on Mario’s bed and unable to see the shore anymore in face of each other’s presence. 

When Marco comes this time it’s with an almost imperceptible shudder, Mario stroking the back of his neck soothingly when he drops his forehead against Mario’s collarbone. He tries reaching for his own cock but Marco catches his hand, intertwining their fingers and bringing them to his mouth as he kisses Mario’s knuckles. “Let me,” he murmurs and slides down Mario’s body, taking him in his mouth. It takes less than a minute after that for him to gasp Marco’s name, his fingers tightening in the grip his best friend still has on him and receiving a reassuring squeeze back as Marco swallows him down. 

Marco puts his chin on Mario’s belly after wiping it haphazardly with the corner of one of the sheets, one arm slung over his hips as he looks up at Mario, gaze unwavering. There should be something uncomfortable in being looked at like that, but Mario has never felt more at peace in his life, a smile tugging at his mouth as he meets Marco’s gaze, running his fingers through Marco’s hair. 

Eventually Marco moves, crawling up Mario’s body until he can bring their foreheads together briefly again, something twisting his features into an almost desperate expression that makes Mario’s chest hurt. He reaches up to touch Marco’s cheek and his best friend catches his hand, kissing Mario’s palm reverently before meeting his eyes again, eyes bright even in the creeping darkness of the room around them. Mario knows he’s going to say something that will break his heart before Marco even opens his mouth and he’s right, the air seemingly drawing in on itself before he speaks, making it impossible to breathe. 

“Don’t ever leave me again.” Marco sounds _shattered_ and Mario’s hand is at the back of his neck and pulling him into a desperate kiss almost before he’s finished speaking, the only thought on his mind to get rid of that anguish in Marco’s voice, matching his own darkest memories of the time they spent apart. _I promise_ , Mario whispers when they break apart for air and immediately kisses Marco again. He’s never meant anything more in his life.

Marco won’t let him up to get even a washcloth, so they misappropriate the already sticky sheet to wipe themselves off as best as possible, letting that one drop off the edge of the bed while crawling beneath the remaining one. They settle into the position they must have spent more than a hundred nights in, Marco sleepily raising his arm until Mario has tucked himself against him, head resting right where he can hear Marco’s heart beating against his ear.

Mario barely has time to think that he won’t be able to fall asleep, not with the events from tonight and his mind still not entirely able to quite grasp the enormity of what Marco told him, before he dozes off, his body’s exhaustion getting the better of him, finally at rest with Marco’s warmth against his side. 

*

Mario wakes from the cold and his first confused thought is where the hell his blanket went. He’s lying on his side of the bed, but the air is freezing around him and there doesn’t seem to be anything else in reach to cover himself- his mind catches up with a startled lurch, the air rushing out of his lungs as he turns slowly to see Marco, sleeping peacefully with his arm outstretched towards Mario, like he’s trying to reach for him even in his sleep.

Lying back down slowly and ignoring the cold for now, Mario keeps his eyes on Marco’s relaxed features, the anxiety that gripped him upon waking still not fading entirely as he looks at his best friend and tries his best to believe in all the things Marco told him only a few hours ago. It’s hard though. He did this so many times when they were both still in Dortmund, lying awake and looking at Marco, wishing for things to be different as his best friend slept on, unaware. As much as Mario tells himself that the situation is changed, the similarities are throwing his body into releasing stress signals and the cold does its best to sharpen them, making him shiver. 

Later he wonders if that’s what wakes Marco, but when he shifts and opens his eyes with a sigh, any thought flies from Mario’s head as he lies there caught, Marco’s eyes only slowly coming into focus as he blinks, a frown marring his features when he notices Mario. “What’s wrong?” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, hand already groping for Mario, who takes it immediately. 

Marco startles awake further then, his eyes becoming more alert. “Fuck, you’re freezing! Come here.” 

He lifts the covers and Mario slides underneath, pressing up against Marco and burying his face against the hot skin of his neck, shivers wracking his body worse than ever. Marco wraps both arms around him, his sleep warm skin like a furnace against Mario. “Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs against Mario’s temple, the worried tone in his voice evident even as he tries to keep it low and soothing. “What’s going on Sunny, what do you need?” 

It’s so disarming that any attempt at deflection Mario was concocting collapses in on itself like a shoddily built house of cards and his voice comes out rough, a hoarse whisper against Marco’s throat. “Every day for the rest of our lives?” 

Marco takes a second to reply, tightening his arms around Mario and kissing the top of his head, his words muffled against Mario’s hair. “And nights, too. I promise.” 

He doesn’t make Mario look at him and the gratefulness and love Mario feels for him for that make his throat tighten as he burrows closer, determined not to let go this time as he lets Marco’s warmth lull him into sleep again. 

*

When Mario wakes the next time, the room is filled with the grey light overcast days in Munich tend to bring about and the bed is empty except for him. There’s sounds coming from the vague vicinity of the kitchen though and really, if it’s any bit as late as Mario suspects, it’s no wonder Marco didn’t manage to stay put. His best friend has always had the very unfortunate character trait of being an early riser. 

That’s never deterred Mario from attempting to sleep as long as humanly possible though, especially on his days off. So he burrows deeper into the covers, bundling the sheets around himself and watching snow drift against the windows sleepily until his eyes close again, ready to drift off. Only he can’t seem to quite manage. The sounds from the kitchen are faint, but _there_ which means Marco is making breakfast right now, possibly without his shirt on, since Mario can spot it on the armchair in the corner. It’s a simple, but rather powerful image and the sheer joy that floods through Mario when the realization hits that he’s going to get to have this from now on does the rest. 

He winces when his bare feet hit the freezing floor, and he moves to the closet to pulls socks from one of the drawers, gathering up a pair of sweats and Marco’s shirt on the way. It smells like him and suddenly Mario finds he can’t wait a minute longer, practically jerking the door open in his haste to get into the hallway. It’s only when he’s almost into the living room that Mario realizes he’s hearing _voices_ and his heart jumps into his throat as he takes a step back, thinking for a wild moment that Fabian returned for some reason. 

Ann’s voice takes a second to register and Mario blinks, again hesitating in his spot in the hallway, still hidden from sight. What the hell is Ann doing here? Before he can think about what he’s doing exactly and coming up with reasons why it might be slightly unethical, Mario tip-toes closer, Marco’s and Ann’s voices growing clearer now, both of them agitated. 

“-just using him again-“

“I was never _using_ him.” Marco sounds furious and Mario frowns, torn between wanting to go in there and break the two of them up and listening further. Before he can make a decision however, Marco continues. “I’m never going to take another piece of advice _you_ give me, so save it.” 

Mario’s eyebrows shoot up, the implication in those words obvious. Just when did Ann talk to Marco?

“I’m sorry.” 

From the long silence, Mario isn’t the only one surprised to hear those words from her, especially directed at Marco. When she goes on, her voice has grown steadier, but Mario can still hear the apology dripping from each syllable, wonders if Marco can, too. 

“I was trying to protect him and I thought…I thought you didn’t love him, not the same way.” 

The pause is even longer this time and Marco can’t quite keep the surprise from his voice when he answers, though from the word he chooses, it seems like he’s trying. “You were wrong.” 

There’s something almost peaceful about the silence afterwards as Ann seems to accept this and Mario is getting ready to emerge from his hideout and pretend he just happened upon the two of them, when Ann’s voice stops him. 

“What are you doing? Is this some weird squirrel habit Mario never told me about?” 

Marco’s frustrated huff is loud enough to be heard in the hallway and his voice grows defensive. “He doesn’t _like_ raisins. Which makes it all the more weird that there’s only raising muesli in this household. He doesn’t eat them.”

“No,” Ann replies and her voice has become soft in the way Mario has only heard it a select number of times, most prominently in the time right after he left Dortmund. “He doesn’t.” 

“ _What_ are you doing,” Marco says a couple of seconds later and he sounds so scandalized that Mario’s eyebrows climb higher again, wishing he knew just what the hell happened. 

“Nothing,” Ann snaps, sounding embarrassed and a bit like she’s surprised as well. 

“Really? Because it seemed like you were trying to hug-“ 

Mario jerks into motion, rounding the corner before the kitchen becomes witness to an actual fight. Marco is standing by the counter in nothing but sweatpants he must have borrowed from Mario’s closet, since the cuffs barely cover his ankles, despite being slung so low that his hipbones are visible, a sight too enticing for Mario not to stop and stare. His best friend’s hair is disheveled and his tattoos are fully on display, something Mario sorely missed and barely had time to appreciate last night. 

Ann is leaning against the kitchen island, long hair curling over the soft grey pea coat she’s still wearing. But Mario barely spares her more than a glance, because when he steps into the kitchen Marco’s eyes turn to him and his entire face changes, expression turning from wary to…besotted. There’s no other way to properly describe the way his face lights up otherwise, mouth curling into that familiar grin as his eyes grow brighter, warmer, crinkling at the corners. 

Mario can feels the responding smile tug on his mouth and he closes the distance between them in three strides, deciding that Ann has witnessed way worse from him and that she might as well get used to this. Marco’s hand is held out to him as soon as he moves and Mario takes it as he steps into his best friend’s space, tucking himself neatly into Marco’s side and lifting his chin for the brief kiss that Marco presses to his mouth. 

Ann is suppressing a smile when he finally looks at her, though there’s apprehension too, the memory of their fight clearly not only on Mario’s mind as their eyes meet. “Hey,” he says quietly. 

Her smile dims and she grabs her purse from the kitchen island, slinging it over her shoulder. “Well. I just wanted to drop by, but since you’re busy-“ 

“I’ll walk you out,” Mario says, unable to let her go without making things right between them, but unwilling to spare even a minute of the time that he has with Marco. 

Marco’s hand trails along his hip as Mario slips out underneath his arm to follow Ann into the hallway and he throws one glance back before stepping out of the kitchen, catching his best friend watching him leave. He holds up three fingers to show this won’t take long and goes after Ann, who is buttoning up her coat already, close to the door. They smile at each other a bit awkwardly and then start talking at the same time, trying to outdo each other with their apologies. 

“Ann, I’m sorry, what I said-“

“I wasn’t trying to meddle, I really-“ 

They both break off and stare at each other and then she’s in his arms, the almond scent of her shampoo thick in his nose as he buries his face in her hair. “Things are good?” she asks quietly, probably aware that they have little time to talk right now. Mario smiles into her hair, squeezing her a bit tighter. “Things are _really_ good.” 

“I’m glad,” she whispers fiercely and when she pulls back, her eyes are bright and shimmering. “I want you to be happy.” 

“I know,” Mario says quietly. “Ann, what I said about you and Fabian- I was way out of line. You know it doesn’t actually bother me, right?” 

“I do,” she says with a grin, wiping at the corners of her eyes carefully as not to smudge her perfect makeup. “But even if it did, I wouldn’t care. No offense, but your brother and I are- we’re good. Maybe not you and that tattoed disaster in there good, not yet at least, but. Good.” 

“I love you,” Mario says impulsively, because he _does_ and he wants her to know. When he leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, her arms come up around him again, holding tight as she whispers against his ear.

“I love you, too. And that’s the only reason I’m going to leave without you giving me details on what the fuck happened here.” 

“Soon,” Mario promises when she pulls back and opens the door for her, watching her disappear down the staircase after she pressed another kiss to his cheek. 

He wipes the lipstick off absent-mindedly as he goes back into the kitchen, grinning when he sees Marco expertly flip a pancake and exclaim happily under his breath. Sidling up to his best friend’s side, Mario presses a kiss to his bare shoulder and slides both arms around him. “Hi.” 

Marco twists his head to kiss him, pulling back after only a second to glance around warily. “We’re alone now?” 

“Completely,” Mario assures and then yelps in surprise when Marco turns and _grabs_ him, lifting Mario onto the counter and stepping between his legs to kiss him stupid. “I _hate_ it when you do that,” Mario says breathlessly when their lips part again and Marco laughs against his mouth, already going in for the next kiss. “Liar.”

It takes them a while to notice that something is burning and Marco tears himself away with a curse, ripping the frying pan off the stove, the black crisp the pancake turned into flopping onto the plate Marco set out rather pathetically. Mario can’t keep the laughter that’s bubbling to the surface inside and Marco shoots him a dark glare while he scrapes the sad remnants of the pancake into the trash, dropping the frying pan into the sink and filling it with water. 

Mario does his best to smother the chuckles that still threaten to escape him and he beckons Marco closer, his best friend coming only reluctantly and with a frown line between his eyebrows that Mario immediately tries to smooth away with his fingertips. “Remember when I ruined your only frying pan, because I didn’t know that you had to melt butter before pouring in the batter?” 

“Yes,” Marco says with a small snort, obviously trying and failing to hold onto his grudge. Mario kisses him thoroughly to mollify him further, hooking his ankles over the back of Marco’s thighs to pull him closer. It takes them another ten minutes to pull apart after that, Mario hopping down from the counter regretfully as he allows Marco to steer him towards the kitchen table. 

They have pancakes eventually and Marco watches with obvious satisfaction as Mario wolfs down three of them, his penchant for trying to constantly feed Mario obviously alive and well, as evidenced by the fact that he pushes the muesli on him afterwards, the one that’s mysteriously raisin-free all of a sudden. Mario lets him, pushing his socked feet beneath Marco’s bare ones underneath the table, because no matter what Fabian says about the in-floor heating, these tiles aren’t warm, never mind ‘toasty’. 

They take their time finishing breakfast and Mario drags Marco into the shower afterwards, leaning into his best friend, who keeps his hands tight on Mario’s hipbones to keep him from slipping underneath the scalding water as they shift around. Afterwards Mario digs up a fresh shirt for Marco to wear and they settle onto the couch in their sweatpants, creating and burrowing into a fort of blankets and pillows. 

Outside, the snowflakes are still falling thickly, piling up on the window sills and the balcony to create an impressive layer of snow that will make traffic absolutely hellish, Mario knows. There’s no need for the two of them to move from the cocoon they created, Mario tucked in between Marco and the backrest of the couch, his cheek resting on Marco’s chest as he only briefly pays attention to what’s going on in the movie flickering across the TV. It’s only background noise to what they’re really doing anyway. 

If asked to describe what that is exactly, the closest analogy Mario would be able to come up with is that of a drained battery being recharged. It’s inelegant perhaps, but true nevertheless. Being away from Marco for so long and being without his affection for even longer drained him. And this right here? Is the only thing he needs right now, despite the fact that there’s a hundred unanswered questions between them Mario knows they’ll eventually have to address.

Right now he doesn’t need anything but Marco’s heart beating against his ear though, nothing but the long fingers carding gently through his hair. Mario’s own hand has found its way beneath the shirt he lent Marco and he’s stroking the warm skin softly, drawing patterns onto Marco’s hipbones and stomach with his fingertips. They pass the entire movie that way and Mario isn’t even close to paying attention until Marco’s hum distracts him from trying to trace every single line of his tattoos without having to stray from the inked parts or lifting his finger. 

He only looks up when Marco hums again, a bit irritated. “What?” 

Marco jerks his chin towards the screen and Mario notices it’s the part with Elizabeth and Will kissing desperately in the midst of a frantic battle aboard their ship. He raises an eyebrow at Marco, whose mouth is curling into a half-smirk as he glances down at Mario. “Really?” Mario says, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You couldn’t have just kissed me?” 

Marco frowns at him. “Hey, don’t hate. Using onscreen kissing to initiate a make-out is a classic. It’s one of my best moves, alright?”

“You have moves?” Mario asks, because he can’t help but be a dick sometimes. 

Marco shakes his head mournfully, grabbing the remote and stopping the movie. “You never learn, do you.” 

He’s flipped Mario onto his back before he can utter so much as a rejoinder, a rather impressive feat considering how wedged in Mario was lying on his side before. Opening his mouth to complain, Mario finds Marco’s tongue in his mouth, licking any protest right from his lips as he leans over him, hand already undoing the laces on Mario’s sweatpants and slipping inside. Mario isn’t wearing any underwear underneath and Marco hums appreciatively, fingers closing around Mario’s half-hard cock and running his thumb just beneath the head expertly, the way he knows is bound to make Mario want to jump out of his own skin with arousal. 

Things unravel from there. Half an hour later they’re both naked and sticky with sweat again, Marco nuzzling into his favorite spot in the crook of Mario’s neck, his voice muffled. “You gonna admit my moves are awesome now, Sunny?” 

“Fine,” Mario groans, torn between laughter and wanting to whack Marco over the head with something heavy. “You’ve got moves.” 

“Damn right I do,” Marco states, kissing Mario once as if to seal this fact before he grabs one of the blankets they kicked off to drape over them. “Can we finish watching the movie now?” 

“I wasn’t the one who-“ Mario starts indignantly, but gets shushed by Marco, whose eyes are already fixed on the screen again. 

So Mario watches the remaining minutes with him, the familiar scenes playing out just like he remembers them, no real surprise. Except something catches his attention, pulls on a thread that’s been becoming unraveled since last night, smoothed over by everything that’s happened since then. There’s no way to keep doing that now that his mind is on it though, as it tugs at the thread until it unravels further and further, taking up his entire attention. 

“Hey.” Marco’s voice is unbearably gentle when Mario looks at him and his eyes carry the uncertainty Mario wishes he could take from him, like he’s afraid Mario is going to change his mind about this at any point. What he’s going to say next is probably not going to help with that, but he needs to say it anyway, so Mario twines their fingers together, squeezes Marco’s hand when he speaks. 

“I think I need to talk to Leon.” 

*

The English Garden is almost deserted, a hushed silence engulfing the space that only a great amount of freshly fallen snow brings about, swallowing even the sounds from the hundreds of kids that are undoubtedly over on the bigger lawns and battling each other with snow balls. In this area though, the one that Mario has come to privately come to think of as his, Leon’s and Lotte’s, there’s hardly anyone trying to make their way along the frozen Isar, the paths blocked with snowdrifts that nearly come up to Mario’s knees. 

Marco didn’t want him to go and when he realized there was no way to sway Mario on the matter, he asked to come along, ‘in case that asshole tries something again’. Mario, who knows he’ll never be able to convince Marco that Leon really didn’t shove him in that parking lot, just let him rant until he ran out of breath before putting his foot down. There’s no way he’d allow Marco to witness this and rub salt in a wound his own failures inflicted on Leon. He cares too much for his friend for that to happen. 

It’s a miracle Leon even agreed to meet him and Mario is thankful for that if nothing else, hating where his thoughtlessness took the two of them. Because there was a moment when their friendship still could have been salvaged. Mario should have pulled away after that weekend in Memmingen, taken the out Leon gave him back then. Only he was too stubborn and blind to, so now he has to deal with the consequences. 

He hears Lotte before he sees her and the déjà vu that overtakes Mario is so strong he reels from it, thrown back to the very first time Leon and he met here, during a summer day that already feels like it happened a lifetime ago. She rounds the corner and charges through the snow with delight only dogs and possibly children show in the face of snow, barreling into Mario and yipping happily when he leans down to scrub through her fur, taking a bit more time than he usually would, in order not to have to watch Leon approach. 

Mario braced himself, but it’s still awful, Leon’s face drawn and tired, the sleep he missed last night etched into his features so clearly it makes Mario’s chest hurt in sympathy. That’s not the worst part though. The worst part is the undeniable _hope_ in Leon’s expression, hope that drains away as he looks at Mario, eyes dulling as a blank look replaces it. “Oh,” he says and that one syllable somehow contains all the hurt Mario knows is his fault, makes him want to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve. 

“I thought,” Leon begins and then he laughs softly to himself, which is somehow even worse, because of its hopelessness. “I’m such a fucking idiot. I actually thought you asked to see me to work this out. But that’s not what you came here for at all, is it?” 

“No,” Mario replies quietly and he’s never been more loathe to utter that word, watching helplessly as Leon’s expression twists, something bitter flickering across his face. 

“So, the two of you?” Leon asks and Mario has to look away, can’t face the accusation he sees in his eyes. He just nods and Leon breathes that horrible laugh again, only stopping when Lotte whines softly, looking up at her owner from where she’s leaning against his legs. 

“I’m sorry,” Mario says softly. “For hurting you. I never wanted that, Leo. I never wanted any of this to happen. Please believe that.” 

Leon looks at him then and it takes every ounce of will Mario has to face him. “Then why did you lie to me?” 

Mario has to swallow against the lump forming in his throat, aware that he has no right to be the one in need of consolation here. His voice still comes out wrecked. “Because I wanted it to be you. I wanted that so badly, Leo, you have no idea.”

“Really? It wasn’t me you went after last night,” Leon says, his own voice rough now. “You went after _him_.” 

There’s nothing Mario can say to that, it’s the truth after all. So he stays silent, watching as Leon rubs a hand across his face, a gesture that somehow carries within itself a weariness that digs the knife of regret lodged in between Mario’s ribs deeper, twisting it mercilessly. When Leon looks at him again, there’s something on his face Mario can’t quite decipher and isn’t sure he wants to. 

“You chose wrong,” Leon says, his voice quiet but certain. “I’m just going to say it. You chose wrong. How will you keep this up, with him in Dortmund and you here? The secrecy will drive you apart eventually, if the distance doesn’t. You really think you can live that kind of lie for the next ten years of your life, Mario?” 

“There never was a choice,” Mario says, the laugh tearing at his throat threaded with tears more than genuine amusement. “Not for me. Not with him.” 

“Yeah,” Leon says. “I thought you might say that. But you’re wrong, Mar. I could have made you happy. I know I could have, eventually. And I think deep down you know that, too.”

“Leo-“ 

“Don’t,” Leon interrupts him and now the bitterness is in his voice as well, lacing every word. “Don’t ask me if we can stay friends. Because I don’t want to have to tell you no. But I can’t be around you anymore, so please. Don’t ask me.”

“Okay,” Mario whispers, knowing he deserves every bit of the anguish tearing through him. 

Leon nods briskly, eyes becoming closed off as he spares a glance at his watch. “I need to go.”

“Can I-“ Mario hesitates and Leon follows his gaze to his feet, looks away as he nods. 

Mario sinks to his knees in front of Lotte, not minding the snow soaking through his jeans as he scrubs through the damp fur on her chest before taking her head in his hands. “Bye, girl,” he whispers and presses a kiss right above her eyes. “Take good care of him for me, yeah?” 

She whines softly, picking up on his emotion and licking his fingers as he gets back to his feet. Mario spares a glance to Leon and quickly tears his gaze away when he sees his expression crumpling. He wipes at his eyes roughly and when he looks again the two of them are halfway down the path, Lotte twisting her head back a couple of times as they disappear around the corner, obviously confused as to why Mario isn’t coming along. 

It takes a long while until the trees stop swimming around him and it’s completely dark when they do, the few lanterns along the bigger paths the only source of light as Mario slowly makes his way back, hands shoved into his pockets and shivering in the cold. He feels drained and sad, the cold doing its utmost to make him feel even worse. All he wants is to get home and burrow into Marco, make all of this go away and erase the doubts Leon’s words caused. 

Something catches his eye on the way out of the park though and Mario stops, something stirring at the back of his mind as he pulls his phone from his jacket and pulls off a glove to open a message to Marco. 

*

Mario sees him long before Marco notices him, the warm glow from the Munich Christmas Fair’s holiday lights catching like sparks in his hair as he stands underneath a tree that’s wrapped in them, hands shoved into his pockets and eyes turned away from Mario as he scans the crowd. He’s the most beautiful thing Mario has ever seen, his silhouette tall and lean against the fairy lights above, shoulders hunched in that way that tells Mario he’s not feeling entirely comfortable. They relax when he spots Mario and the barely contained smile that brightens his expression goes a long way to soothe the aches the meeting with Leon caused. 

Mario is burrowing into him as soon as he’s close enough, digging his fingers into the back of Marco’s jacket and allowing himself to slump against him once Marco’s got a secure grip on him. They can’t stay that way for long out here, even standing underneath a tree away from the main crowd, Mario knows, so he makes the best of it, soaking in every bit of comfort Marco’s arms always bring so easily, like it’s nothing to simply taking all of Mario’s worries away with nothing but a touch.

Marco’s eyes are serious when they draw apart, worry digging deep lines into his forehead that Mario wants to smooth away but can’t, not here. “Are you okay?” Marco asks and Mario smiles at him, watches as at least some of Marco’s worry eases at that. “I am now. Come on.” 

“Is this a good idea?” Marco asks as they head into the crowd, apprehensiveness tinging his voice as they squeeze in between the row of stalls selling trinkets and food, the scent of baked apples and cinnamon waffles in the air. Mario just smiles and tugs his beanie lower, pressing their shoulders together as they walk. “I don’t know. But I wanted to come here with you.” 

It will probably be alright. Mario gets recognized a lot less in Munich than he did in Dortmund and even then they managed to go undetected until some idiot had the idea to ride that damn carousel. Mario frowns as they go to stand in line at one of the food stalls. “Do you remember who wanted to go on the rides so badly? Last year I mean.” 

Marco shrugs, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Kevin probably. Sounds like one of his ideas. That was a good night though.”

“You tried to stuff me with food,” Mario recalls and laughs outright at the indignant expression on Marco’s face as he pays for their order and shoves the paper plate at Mario. “You were drunk, I was trying to look out for you. Eat your goddamn waffle.” 

Mario does eat the waffle and they drink a cup of mulled wine each as they make their way through the entire Christmas Fair slowly, this one a lot bigger than the one they visited in Dortmund. Mario buys gifts for his mother from the weaving stall he’s pretty sure she’ll adore and Marco gets some stuff for his sisters, sheepishly admitting that he hasn’t done half of his Christmas shopping yet. Seeing as Christmas is still a week away, Mario isn’t surprised and tells him so, which emits a scowl from Marco. 

The crowd has thinned considerably when they make their way back to the car and Mario can’t really feel his toes anymore despite the thick boots he’s wearing. He’s still happier than he can ever remember being though, trudging through the layer of sludge a thousand feet have turned the thick cover of snow into, the fairy lights strung over their heads basking the entire area in a warm glow. They’ve just left the last row of stalls behind when Marco stops, something odd flickering across his face as he cranes his neck to see over Mario’s head. 

A moment later he’s shoved his bags at Mario. “I forgot something. You go ahead.” 

“Marco,” Mario whines. “We walked through the entire Fair, what could you possibly have forgotten? I’m freezing!” 

“Go to the car,” Marco repeats and then he’s gone, leaving a disgruntled Mario to lug their bags back to his Audi, glad for the tinted windows as he climbs into the passenger seat and sits there like a third-grader waiting for his mother to pick him up, watching a few stragglers passing by unaware, laughing and flushed with happiness this time of the year always seems to put on people’s faces, no matter how old. 

Marco climbs into the car five minutes later, handing Mario a brown paper package as he closes the door, his gloved fingers cold where they brush against Mario’s bare ones. Mario gives him a startled glance, but unwraps the brown paper willingly enough, starting to smile when he feels the sticky texture beneath his fingertips. 

The gingerbread heart is inscribed with one of those godawful Bavarian pet names, but it still looks delicious and Mario still has some of that sickly sweet taste from the mulled wine on his tongue, so he breaks of an edge and puts it into his mouth, sighing in appreciation as that unmistakable gingerbread flavor hits his tongue. It takes him a few moments to realize that Marco has gone completely silent and when he glances over, it’s to see his best friend looking at him with something close to horror. 

“Oh,” Mario says, the words still a bit muffled by the truly _delicious_ gingerbread. He’s flushing now, feeling like an idiot. “I wasn’t supposed to eat it, was I?” 

Marco opens his mouth, but no words come out and then he’s laughing all of a sudden, Mario’s cheeks growing even hotter with embarrassment as his best friend is trying and failing to pull himself together. When he finally manages, Marco has to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes and he is still chuckling under his breath as he wipes a crumb from Mario’s cheek, eyes bright with affection as he looks at him. “No, it’s okay, Sunny. You can eat it.” 

Mario glares at him. “I _like_ gingerbread,” he defends himself. “And you never said I couldn’t!” 

“True,” Marco says, looking like he’s barely managing not to burst into laughter again. He leans forward and kisses Mario then, a long, lingering kiss that grows into something hungrier as Marco cups the back of his neck, pulling him close so he can slide his tongue into Mario’s mouth. 

“Let’s go home,” Mario whispers when they break apart, because his car is seriously not the right place to do any of the things he wants to do to Marco right then and there. Marco nods and turns the key in the ignition, grabbing for his seatbelt.

There’s one thing left on Mario’s mind though. “Care to share just what was so funny?” 

Marco spares him a glance and the fondness in his expression carries something else with it, a promise that makes Mario look at him closer, trying to discern just what he missed here. Marco just smiles at him though. “One day, Sunny. Promise.” 

~

**Author's Note:**

> I've said it before, but at this point I feel the need to say it again: the end to this story existed way before most of its plot did, you could even call it the starting point to this whole verse. And since I didn't want to spoil anything, I may have lied _just a bit_ about this being the final part. It's the final part of this particular story arc. But I'm afraid I'm not done with these guys in this particular verse yet, though the sequels will be called something different and although I'm going to work on some other Götzeus stuff first to recharge. Uhm. Surprise?! 
> 
> Finally, it would mean the world to me, if you told me whether you enjoyed this part. Any feedback is appreciated <3


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